Ballet Heels
by occassionallywriting
Summary: While investigating a car dealer's murder Sharon struggles with a persistent headache, an injury and the men in her life wanting to take care of her. Set somewhere in season 3A, slightly AU-ish (timeline). Sharon/Andy, mothership & the team. Rating T (to slight/partial M). NaNoWriMo 2016. (TIA 4 R&R)
1. Chapter 1

The moment she steps on the crime scene Sharon knows her lightheadedness is only going to get worse. The dealership's lot is bad enough, but her heart drops with one look at the showroom. She has never dealt well with the poignant odors of gasoline nor the overwhelming new car smell — even without the annoying buzz of a headache she's been nursing all through the night. On top of it all, the morning rush hour has done neither her mood nor the lightheadedness any favors. She suspects the LAPD's floodlights inside the showroom will not turn the trend. Stalling, her eyes roam the rows of shiny cars. The search for a delay, any delay, comes up fruitless. She resigns to her fate: she has to get in there. Sharon sighs and poises to slam her car door shut. She rubs her temples and wills the headache to pass.

"Captain! Over here!" Tao interrupts her silent suffering as chipper as ever. Sharon glances over her shoulder and acknowledges him with a miniscule wave before locking the door and reluctantly making her way over.

"Good morning, Mike. What do we have?"

"Morning, Ma'am. The victim is a mister Anton Martin. Owner of this dealership," he gestures bringing together the lot and the building two rows behind him. "Found about two hours ago by the cleaner."

"And why are we here, exactly?" Sharon asks. Giving in to her discomfort she pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Well, the cleaner called the press. And then the police."

"And the press called Chief Taylor," Sharon defeatedly fills in the blanks. "I understood there was something about torture and mutilation?"

"Yes, Ma'am." He smiles, a little inappropriately given the subject matter. "About a hundred dollars worth. The cleaner made it up, Captain, to get better tip from the tabloid," he clears. "Follow me."

Tao starts leading her towards the showroom. Sharon follows relaxing her eyes for a step or two. She thinks the headache would ease if she knew how to release the tension. The mental anguish has weaved itself into physical discomfort: she's been on the edge for most of last night and now she is certainly paying for her restless ways. She misses Mike looking behind himself and raising a brow at his Captain walking with her eyes closed.

"And there is already an arrest?" Sharon states opening her eyes.

"Yes, Ma'am," Tao confirms and opens the showroom for her. Sharon falters at the doorstep, it is worse than she expected. The smell is like a hospital on acid, like vintage hand disinfectant that skips past her nose and straight into her already suffering brain. It is vile and disgusting and potent enough to make her swoon. The effect is not lessened by the too bright lights in a white room. She swallows and mentally chants herself to calm down. Mike steps behind her, cueing Sharon to move before she has to answer uncomfortable questions. She bites her lower lip for strength. "One Kevin Anderson, 'Crusher', came knocking around a little over an hour ago," he reports evenly. "About fifteen minutes after the scene was taped up. Carried a .38 and refused to answer any questions. Vocally."

She is almost afraid to ask. "What does 'vocally' entail?"

Tao directed her along a row of cars. "A lot of shouting expletives, obstruction of justice and resisting an arrest."

"So he will be staying with us for a while. That's good, at least," Sharon nods and skips over what looks like an oil stain.

"Look here!" Mike shouts stopping to point at something on the ground between two new Dodges. "A drop of blood! It's perfectly round, a little closer to the driver's door of the black Charger."

Sharon nods and steps around it. When you have seen thousands of blood marks, one smallish and perfectly round one is hard to get excited over. Especially when you wish to be almost anywhere else. Sharon knows her concentration and attitude will be tested today but there's nothing for it. Already she has forgotten the name of the victim. Was it Martens? No, Martinez? Something. She sniffs and wishes she dared to rub her temples again.

Hiding her discomfort, she turns around and spots a what looks like an office door 8 yards in front and 2 feet from her. The door is blue and flanked with two plastic looking palms. A frosted window takes most of the door. The larger windows with their vertical blinds beside it remind Sharon of her own office. She does a mental groan thinking of how many hours of her office she has to look forward to tonight. At least she can shut the door and be alone.

"The body is through there," Tao says rounding Sharon and starting towards the office. She follows him through the office door, nods to a couple of uniforms, straightens her jacket. Her heels clack against the smooth concrete flooring that stretches all through the showroom and into the office. No carpets, anywhere. She misses a tacky red carpet. Stepping into the office, the only warm things are the two ficuses, otherwise the decor is crisp and clinical with metal legs and no personal effects. Sharon assumes the personnel have no assigned desks. "In here", Tao repeats as they arrive at a nondescript white door in the corner, behind the three desks.

He opens the door. The small space behind crawls with people, so as the door pushes open, it hits Lieutenant Flynn squarely in the back. He turns with a scowl and a biting remark on his tongue which only die as he comes face to face with Captain Raydor. Sharon. He tries to smile a bit.

"Cap—"

"Morning, Lieutenant," Sharon says immediately and pulls the door letting it close with a click. Studying the handle, she slowly breathes in and out. "Mike, why did you say 'the door was locked from the inside'?"

Tao shifts on his feet awkwardly. He gauges the situation, what's actually happening here. The Captain stares at the closed door, the white surface that is as nondescript as can be. She looks up and down, taking her time, then turns to wait for an answer.

"Because," he starts slowly, because something is off, he can sense, "the door was, uh, locked and the key was, well, found inside." He winces internally. Try as he might, that didn't sound one bit less patronizing than it did in his head.

"I'm aware of that," the Captain says a little short, "but what I fail to see is the connection here. We have a locked door with a body and a key inside, yet we also have a cleaner who could actually see that body. What I am presuming here, is that the cleaner did so on the other side of this door."

"Ah," the Lieutenant catches on and lets his smile reappear, "that would be a no." He steps forward and gestures the Captain to step aside. "See this thing here?" Mike says pointing to a small box above the lock and handle. "That is an electronic access system. It works on the principle of converting —"

"The short version, please, Mike."

"Yes, of course," he says somewhat disappointed. One of his fingers touches the box fondly. "It controls the primary lock. It's all electronic and works with a tag. Besides giving access to a tag, it can be programmed to give access to a certain tag only during certain days or times."

"And the cleaner has a tag?"

"Yes, that's correct. It only works from 5.30 am to 7.30 am, Monday through Friday. The tag was shown to the machine, and it opened the electronic lock, but the mechanic lock kept the door closed. That's when our cleaner crouched down and called the press."

Sharon raises a brow. "Crouched down?" Mike nods and gestures to follow him as he kneels on the floor. She gives him a cautious look and checks the surroundings. Great, this was only going to get better. As if the smell wasn't bad enough now. As if the buzz in her head wasn't bad enough. But she knows the sooner she checks whatever it is she needs to check, the sooner she can leave.

The concrete is cold and gritty against her bare knees. It looks reasonably clean however. She assumes she only imagines the increasing fumes. One last smoothing of her skirt later Sharon takes a breath and leans over to all fours. Tao directs her to look under the door. There is a gap through which she gets a glimpse of Flynn's shoes before the door starts receding. She doesn't bother moving, not even when she hears his gasp for breath.

"Can you shut the door, Lieutenant? I would rather not be down here any longer than I have to."

"Uh, well, yes, of course." Andy's eyes linger on her ass for a second. This certainly is not what he was expecting when he decided to open the door. Not a bad sight, though. Not bad at all. She clears her throat and he gets to moving. "Sorry, Captain."

The door closes again and this time Sharon and Mike observe, beside Flynn's shoes just inches away on the left, a key about two feet away to the right and about six feet beyond a body lying behind someone in a dark navy windbreaker crouching beside it. A dark wooden desk stands by the body's head. Multiple filing cabinets line the far wall.

"As you can see, Captain," Tao summarizes as they both lean back on their haunches in preparation to stand up, "the victim is clearly visible. If Kendall wasn't on the way, you would see the blood from the gunshot wound as well from here." He points in the middle of his forehead. Sharon nods her thanks and Mike gives her a hand up. She quickly brushes her knees and hands despite them being surprisingly clean. "There are only two keys in known existence. One never leaves the safe, the other never leaves the victim's presence. Both accounted for."

"Who has access to the safe?"

"Still figuring that out. The victim and the manager, that we know of." Tao opens the door and ushers her inside. "We are actually really behind on background," he says apologetically.

Sharon leads them in. Provenza stands in one corner with a uniform from Hollywood, their eyes on the floor where Kendall is working the body. Amy stands behind the body, in front of the filing cabinets, taking notes. Two uniforms stand behind the desk, going through the papers in view. Buzz monitors the progress over their shoulders. Sanchez is nowhere to be seen. Sharon finishes her round of the room by meeting Flynn's eyes for long enough to receive a nod in greeting. She merely looks back towards the end of the room and goes to crouch beside Kendall.

"Single gunshot to the head, looks like close contact, execution style."

Crouching down Sharon listens through the few details they have. There is not much, but she feels like she misses half of it. Like she has trouble understanding English. She is glad for Amy's note taking. It will be very in-depth. Sometimes Sharon wonders whether Amy records everything because of perfectionism or inexperience. At least she is a quick writer. When Provenza steps behind her and starts rattling off his notes, which no one else will never ever be allowed to see, she prays Amy won't fail her now.

"There's a wife and a kid somewhere and manager's outside waiting for a ride to the station," Provenza grumbles on background. "The goon is already on his way courtesy of Hollywood." Sharon straightens and faces her second in command. He reads more, "Nice boss, asshole when stressed, amazing lack of personal skills, probably not had a mistress. Yada yada yada, the usual stuff." He looks up from the notebook. "I'm going to say the wife did it."

"Where is the wife?"

Provenza shrugs. "On a trip with the kid," Sanchez supplies from the doorway. "Somewhere."

Sharon puts her weight on one leg and sighs. "We really need more details." She rubs her temples. "I think I've seen everything here. Now we need information."

"You can make a start with Flynn," Provenza offers. Andy joins the group at the body and Provenza gestures at him with his notebook. "He needs a ride anyway."

Out of the corner of her eye Sharon glances at the man now standing beside her. Oh God. Anything but; she feels suffocated enough with the unrelenting buzz in her head. "I, uh, well, I need to..." One of her hands searches for something in that pongy air but comes up empty. "I have a meeting. And I need to pick something up. On the way," she adds with a little desperate hum. "It's all good. Lieutenant Flynn can give you a hand here until you're done. Or something," she finishes before nodding to the others and hurrying out of the room. She stops barely beyond the door at the office, hears Flynn sigh an "okay". It sounds like a stage whisper, designed to be just loud enough for her to hear.

Sharon shakes her head and acknowledges the young officer standing between two of the desks filling the impersonal space. "Great work, Officer," she says. He only nods, a little quizzically. "I, uh, have a meeting. Yes," she adds and tries a smile before realizing the rookie probably won't care. He quirks a brow while she fiddles with her hands. "Well, uhm..." She doesn't know why she's still standing right there trying to engage someone that doesn't matter, someone that probably doesn't even know who she is. The too familiar set of footsteps from behind her back spook her into moving on. "Well, nice work," she says and runs away in case she is followed by a certain Lieutenant.

Through the lot she scuttles over to her car, beeps the doors unlocked, then fights her purse's tangled handles off her arm and into the back seat. Jumping on the driver's seat one of her heels bumps the floor almost bouncing on the concrete outside. She takes a moment to find her equilibrium. With deep breaths she feels her cheeks flush. Embarrassment is a familiar condition to her but the unraveling of her steely work persona is more foreign. What's wrong with her? She rests her forearms on the steering wheel and her face on them. The horn beeps, she startles but resumes. Her focus is shot. Her ears ring with the bounding of her blood. The smell of petrol permeates the small space and breathing through her nose disgusts her — the reliving of her eloquence in the past couple of minutes anchors the disgust deep in her gut. And she can't stop rubbing her temples, the bridge of her nose. What's wrong with her! Besides the way she insists on making a fool of herself. Besides the way her ability to make smart choices has all but crumbled in the past day. Besides that, ultimately, there's certainly something wrong with her head.


	2. Chapter 2

Her head buzzes even two hours later when she is about a hundred pages in their latest case. Her usually calming office does nothing for her today. The morning light seeping through the windows, while easier on the eyes than the floodlights on the crime scene, makes her squint. She contemplates on pulling the blinds. Maybe after this packet, after all it's only five more pages. She discounts how her eyes roam the walls at every turn of the page while her mind wanders back a day. It has never been this hard for her to concentrate, she's never read this slow, she's never retained so little information. Periodically she checks the murder room and can't believe the relief she feels when she finally sees Amy coming in and sitting at her desk.

In a few minutes Amy's notes will start updating on their electronic case file and Sharon can check them for anything she might have missed. Anything she has missed. Her own notes are meager enough even now. 'Victim: Anton Martin, 48, car dealership owner. Wife: Wanda, 36, homemaker. Son, Davide, 8. No previous history with police except for a reported break and entering three years back.' A couple of doodles, almost tribal in nature. And that's about it. Sharon frowns at her own inefficiency. She is pretty sure there was something else as well, but apparently she didn't think it important at the time. Then she glances at her shoes and frowns even harder. A sniff, and she is again assaulted with the same stench that's burned into her nostrils. Petrol. And she tried to be so careful! Her shoes make everything worse.

As Lieutenant Flynn enters the murder room, she fidgets on her seat. A small puff of the terrible, headache inducing smell wafts to her nose. Sharon kicks the offending shoes off her feet and further under the desk. Away from sights, away from mind, she hopes. Though there has been no evidence of that so far. Her cotton ball of a brain seems only work when it latches onto a certain subject. A certain subject that is currently staring at her through the glass separating her office from his desk.

Andy watches her, brows scrunched, head tilted. Sharon uncurls the fingers holding her pen as a small wave of greeting. He doesn't react other than bunching his arms. She teases her lower lip in fear of blushing before realizing she can always look away. She does, but doesn't ease on her lip. She doesn't feel comfortable in her own skin, a fact she fears she made abundantly clear to everyone during the morning crime scene.

A ding alerts her to a new text. Her phone says there are three new messages, but in reality it really is just the one. She reads the new one — Rusty asking about her dinner plans, to which she can't answer — and quickly ignores the other two. She already knows them by heart.

'Answer your goddamn phone Sharon'.

She has the eight missed calls to match that. She really doesn't want to think about them or the way she can hear his voice growl the written words. Thus she hides the messages and pretends she never read them. Preferably, never even received them. Because the second one is even worse.

'Fine. If you want to play this game I'll see you at work.'

In her mind she sees the frustrated resignation coming over him, the way he hangs his head and runs hands through his hair. Sharon feels for him, she truly does, but can't get her head around anything. It's like her brain has turned into cotton wool. If nothing else, that is enough to make her nervous.

She gives up on trying to read, leans back and pulls her glasses off. Her nostrils are invaded by the petrol smell following her about and she has to rub the bridge of her nose. Yes, definitely it is her shoes that prohibit her from concentrating. She throws her head back and groans. The momentary flexion of her neck muscles ease the headache if only slightly. The reading seems to go nowhere so she lets her eyes land on one of the paintings in her office. The one of a beach that reminds her of early morning, the times she escaped with Jack on a morning swim while the kids were still small. Or maybe it was while Emily was still small, she can't quite remember if they did that after Ricky was in the picture. Anyway, they would go to the beach, stroll hand in hand for a while, she would wear her silly white string bikinis (though under an oversized t-shirt, quite possibly Jack's, but still, honestly, what ever possessed her!) and they would laugh and he would watch while she did a quick dip in the ocean. It was never much about exercise, rather than stealing just an hour for themselves. However, they were lucky to have a good babysitter for Emily, one who never commented if she came in still flushed, slightly out of breath, and he with a stupid grin.

Now that she smiles at the memory and tries to picture every detail: the heavy arm draped around the cool skin of her lower back, the warm hand she can almost feel in hers. She remembers those twinkling eyes directed at her and tries to picture every nuance of that cheeky smirk, the one she misses and remembers oh so well, as a hand slips so low it's not really on her back anymore. Her mind's eye goes up, expecting to meet the blue shine of his eyes only to discover the color isn't that blue of Jack's rather than a dark... No!

Her posture snaps straight, her eyes land on the file in front of her and her cheeks are going rosy. Well, at least now her eyes are fully open and there is an incentive to focus on the case. She could justify the mix-up her subconscious made by still being distracted with seeing him just now or her phone alerting her to another unread text but she's not in that deep of a denial. Not anymore. At least for not good twelve, thirteen, hours. And that kind of is the problem.

For future reference, if she intends on making a fool of herself, she should do it on a Friday, Saturday at the latest.

When she shuts the current file folder, she deems the background gathering done as much as it is going to get if she's left to her own devices. Sharon takes a quick look through Amy's notes. They are indeed extensive and she starts to feel a bit better equipped to handle the investigation. Since she has seen the whole team making their periodic appearances the time is right for an update. After some hot liquid pick-me-up. Sharon fishes her shoes from under the desk and heads out through the side door. At the threshold, before stepping out on the hallway, she stops to sniff at her shoes again.

They still smell. The others will notice it too, she knows. Just great, just absolutely great. This day can't get worse.

Except that it can, and it does. Before she manages to step out, she hears footsteps from the direction of the break room.

"What's up with the Captain and Flynn?" she hears Julio wonder.

"Just don't ask." Provenza. "I told you all this was coming. Did anyone listen? No."

"But she's acting weird with him. She's... flighty! That doesn't happen."

"Exactly!"

The rest she doesn't catch for hastily shoving her door closed and hiding behind it, but what she heard was enough to make her stomach flip. Not in the good way, rather like in that sinking feeling that makes your ears pound so that you momentarily lose all hearing. They all know! He's told them! Laughed about her! She is going to lose the respect of her team, plain and simple. And all she's got to blame are her own hormones. Or is she even of the age where she still has that excuse? Her hand finds her middle, her fingers spread on her belly. On top of the headache she thinks she might be sick. Her heart is racing enough.

Focusing on the room outside, she takes stock. It looks like a case is moving full ahead. Flynn's desk looks like a pretty impressive replica of the New York skyline, all conducted in paper. She smirks at his hunched back and the way his fingers comb his hair into an even bigger mess. He is one of the rare people she thinks look good, great, distressed. Frustration becomes him. At some point during the last hour he has loosened the dark purple silk tie. His jacket's resting on the back of his chair and the sleeves of that light salmon shirt are bunched near his elbows. She likes his hands, his arms. Unintentionally, she hums.

The keen sound startles her. As if fearing someone might hear the direction where her mind is going, she glances around the room. Provenza is back and busy updating the whiteboard. Sanchez taps something out on his computer. A few minutes later Sykes emerges from the break room carrying a cup of steaming coffee. Normal, very normal. Since they are all (but for Tao, who is still handling things with the SID) there, it's a good time to go through what they know at that point. It's not going to be much, but it's a start. Sharon pushes herself straight and enters the murder room.

"Okay everyone, let's see what we've got," she says as normally as she can. She makes a point of not looking at Flynn and walks straight over to perch on Julio's desk. There are a few sounds that tell her Andy follows her closer to the board as well.

"Our victim worked long days despite being the owner," Provenza starts. If he sees there's something wrong with their Captain, he doesn't show it. She's grateful. "The wife is in the process of getting, what looks like, a very messy divorce. What a coincidence. She's out of town visiting her parents, has been since Thursday." He flicks through pages on his notebook. "We've notified her."

"Already?" Sharon asks and checks her watch.

"Her parents live in Apple Valley. Hollywood didn't think it was a problem," he shrugs and turns a little. "Flynn, business."

Sharon hears him shift. Maybe a couple of feet behind her. She swallows. Her fingers grip the edge harder. "Well," his voice rumbles, "Mr. Martin was the owner of the dealership he was found in. For the past eighteen months he has been trying to make it work. He also owns a part of a restaurant in Burbank and a dry cleaner's somewhere in Fairmont. Nothing jumps out this far but I'm not too deep in. No drugs, no smuggling, no nothing. Only debt and bad management."

"Which gets us to Mister Anderson here," Julio says standing up and walking over to the whiteboard. He raps his knuckles on the photo of their only suspect this far. "'Crusher' has a laundry list of previouses. We think he might be working for a loan shark, though the last one we know he worked for is, 'out of business'. At first the police only wanted to ask him a couple of questions, seeing that he came knocking while the primaries were still underway. When a Hollywood division rookie securing the scene spotted Crusher's work tools, including a .38 with a silencer, the suspicions arose. And then he ran," Julio finishes with a smile.

"It's the wife," Provenza, who has already gone back to his crossword, mutters. "It's always the women," he adds even more quietly but Sharon is sure there is a pointed look directed at her.

She shifts. "Amy?"

Amy looks at her somewhat doe-eyed. She doesn't have much to add, only the preliminary details of the medical examination (single gunshot, close range, looks like a .38, dead for 12 hours or so) and the results of the neighborhood canvas (businesses, so no eyewitnesses; nobody had anything specific to say about the victim). She means to look into a couple of disgruntled employees, current and ex, but their issues seem minor.

They are not much further than they were almost two hours ago. Tao has called from the scene with some theories on how the crime went down. The team share their opinions and bounce their own ideas. So far it looks like Provenza might be right. That is why they agree on Provenza visiting the wife to interview her in person. Just to appease his cynical view on marriages. The others still have their work cut out for them, so Sharon only nods for them to continue.

"Alright, let's get started on interviewing our friend Mr. Crusher," Sharon ends the assembly and starts for her office. Her jacket is still haphazardly draped over the back of her chair.

"Mr. Anderson," Flynn corrects her under his breath as he heads past her to the board. She still struggles with names unless she hears them a couple of times or sees them written down somewhere. Or, as he has found out, the people introduce themselves to her. Funny thing that. With other details her mind works just fine but names escape her.

Sharon swivels around with a glower. Her annoyed sniff alerts Andy to look at her. His eyes land first on her bunched arms and then flicker to her face. It's been a long time since he's seen that look on her so he instantly realizes his mistake. Maybe he didn't do this particular stupid thing quietly enough.

"Right. Sarcasm. Okay," he sighs and goes back to studying the photos on the board. He hears her heels click away, then her door, well, not actually slam but not far from it. This is shaping up like a great day for Andy. If they weren't as good friends as they have been, he might say something. And not nicely either.

The photo of the scene puzzles him. There obviously had been no struggle. An element of surprise? Either the victim knew his killer or he was sufficiently coerced to cooperate. And then there was the key. Tao's report was still not in, but he texted often enough for them to know the key couldn't have been thrown back under the door. That was their first assumption since it laid close enough.

As he realizes the pregnant silence behind him, Andy stops in his ruminations and diverts his attention back to the team. They are all scowling at him. He spreads his arms. "What? How am I supposed to know what she is thinking?"

"Do you want us to answer that, Sir?" Julio counters. "Or is it obvious?" he emphasizes the last word. They all have needled Andy about how obvious he is around Sharon, some have gone even as far as insinuating she is obvious with him. No such luck right now, he thinks. She and her walled-off attitude is beginning to drive him up the wall.

"Ha ha," Andy remarks. "For your information, she doesn't talk to me, at all." There are raised brows and tilted heads like his words are news. "I mean, it's not just in my head she's avoiding me, right?"

Before anyone has the chance to answer, Sharon re-enters and beelines for the interview rooms. At the board, she sidesteps a perfect half-circle to increase her distance to Andy. She disappears around the corner and, before anyone manages to follow her out, his brows jump and his arms spread. "Anyone?" Pointedly avoiding eye contact, the team hurries to gather their things. Not unexpectedly there is a silent race after their captain just to be safe from offering an opinion. Left alone, Andy drops his head, shakes it slowly. "That's what I thought."


	3. Chapter 3

In the corridor between Electronics and the interview room housing Kevin 'Crusher' Anderson, Sharon stops. Only one uniformed officers stands beside the door. Thankfully not the same one she embarrassed herself with earlier. He looks like a good one, young but that's no surprise, and utterly concentrated. He stares some imaginary spot on the opposing wall. Sharon takes deep breaths and wills her head to clear. The lightheadedness is still there, lurking behind her eyes, distracting and disturbing.

Her collecting herself gets interrupted by the team flocking in behind her. They start to file into Electronics, but when Sharon glances through the small window into the interview room, she realizes her original strategy might not be the best one. For one, she's again paired herself with Flynn and unlike the usual, that thought makes her skin crawl. For second, maybe talking to a what by all appearances looks like a hardened debt collector could be aided by adding a little more muscle. Sharon calls Sanchez back and motions him inside the interview. Flynn she points towards Electronics. Andy remains hesitating at the doorway, surprised by the last minute swap. She ignores him with the same concentration as the uniform's staring ahead.

A couple of minutes after the door to Electronics closes after Flynn, Sanchez is well on his way into settling against the back wall with an air of 'don't even try talking to me'. Crusher follows him out of the corner of his eye. Sharon watches how Crusher's face registers defiance that turns to annoyance which in turn morphs into disinterest. That is the point where Sharon takes one last deep breath, touches the doorknob and prepares to purposefully walk into the game awaiting.

She doesn't get to finish her introduction, or even let go of the door, when Crusher bangs his fists on the table and lunges for either her or the door. Sanchez has him on the floor before he manages to round the table completely, and Sharon can't but wonder at the stupidity of some people. What on earth would anyone benefit from escaping an interview room? Don't they realize there are ten floors of police officers between this particular one and the front door? Instinctively she tries flattening herself against the wall to give the uniform (whose name she doesn't know or doesn't remember, she isn't sure which) and Sanchez the most room to work.

The scuffle moves towards her on sheer inertia a man the size of Mr. Anderson could produce in a flying start. Someone somehow clashes against her nearly knocking her on her knees. Sharon grabs the door again, her knuckles going white. There is shouting, grumbles and groans as reenforcements come running through the door. She pulls herself back upright. Crusher is pretty much in control by the time she's back on her feet with her hair pushed bahind her ears. What Sanchez lacks in size he more than makes up for in technique. Maybe it's just the matter of practice, since hand to hand combat doesn't seem like something people in Crusher's line of work would need. He grumbles, spits out random utterances as Amy, Sanchez and the uniform escort him out.

The moment Sharon sees the back of their (only) suspect (so far) retreating into the hallway and around the corner, a searing flash of pain shoots up her leg. She stares at it in such concentration that she has no idea Flynn and Provenza are talking to her. Just a couple feet away. All she knows are the bright lights and the throbbing heat travelling up her leg. And the grip she has on the smooth surface of the door. Everything's gone quiet. She misses probably the first three times they ask how she's feeling and it takes Provenza laying a hand on her shoulder to snap her back to the outside world. She feels how gently Andy (and right then she is not afraid to think of him as 'Andy', her 'friend', instead of 'Lieutenant Flynn') pries her fingers from the death grip on the door. As he encases her fingers in his warm hand, she ignores him and clears her throat with a gentle hum.

"Lieutenant Provenza, would you like to go down to Hollywood and give them a quick review of the correct procedures involving combative suspects?"

"Certainly, Captain. How detailed should that review be?" Provenza checks her from head to toe. Looks like one piece to him, but the answer he gets to questions about being hurt is a bit surprising.

"As detailed as you like," she says and after pulling herself away from the door moderates, "But try to stay remotely civil."

Provenza nods and shoots a meaningful look at Flynn. With a slight jerk of his head in the direction of their Captain and a few well-executed twinges of his facial muscles Provenza encourages his friend to do further investigating into her physical and mental state. By the concerned look plastered on Flynn's face there's probably no need for encouragement. The idiot's been hopping up to tend to the Captain's every sigh and frown for the past way-too-long. And this, this is much worse. Even Provenza himself might feel a small twinge of concern. Very small. And very private.

The truth is, the woman's not impossible. Not as impossible as he thought maybe three years ago. He might even go as far as saying they are friendly, if not actual friends, but the snarky pretense of not caring is kind of their thing and he'd hate to ruin it. It's like when you have a kid sister, a very annoying kid sister who wants to hang out with your best friends and only works to embarrass you, and you try very hard to keep the relationship in some balance so that the world doesn't find out that she's actually very sweet and you might actually kind of like her a lot. Except that Raydor isn't sweet, ye Gods. And Provenza certainly doesn't like her. He maybe, just maybe, slightly appreciates her.

But his idiot best friend certainly likes her. And a lot. This might be the only time he is willing to let that one pass. She is slightly out of it, a little unresponsive and not as sharply aware of their surroundings or the silent conversation they just had over her. There's no 'I'm fine, Lieutenant' and that in itself is concerning.

As Provenza makes to leave the room, he thinks to add, "Get the Captain a seat and the Paramedics to check her over." Flynn is so concentrated on reading every look crossing her face he might forget to be sensible about the situation. Holding her hand is not going to be enough. "Hey, Flynn," he whistles. Figures the idiot's not paying him any attention.

"Yeah, heard ya," Andy mumbles and nods but lets Provenza's footsteps fade out without further input. Instead he squeezes Sharon's hand a little tighter to get her attention. "Sharon, you hurt?"

Owlishly she blinks twice before her eyes focus on his face. The look she sees there has her pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. This so not good. She looks down, hides behind her hair. The right ankle looks wrong, too red. "Hurt?" She considers the question for a few seconds and realizes to pull her hand away from his. His hand follows, palm against hers, not letting go. She resigns. "Not really. I think I backed into the door." She gestures at said item like there is a chance he would have missed it.

"You sure?"

The soft tone irritates her. She looks for her assertive stance to tell him that yes, she is sure and would he very kindly go mind his own business. The move only puts more weight on her ankle. A white-hot flash of pain travels up her leg nearly making her knees buckle. Sharon bites her lip and whimpers. Intellectually she knows Captains don't whimper in front of their Lieutenants and their Lieutenants don't make calming circles with their thumbs against the insides of their Captains' wrists. Since both of those things are occurring right in that moment, her lightheadedness is back. She feels mortified, exposed and anxious, yet at the same time comforted and cherished.

"I'm taking that as a 'no'," he rumbles with a similar grimace crossing his features. He angles to her side and slips an arm around her waist. The way he does that is hesitant and slow, albeit oddly clinical. Her panic rises and she has absolutely no idea what to think. "Okay, we'll go slow. Lean on me," he encourages too low, too close.

Sharon bites her lip again, this time in concentration. She knows herself, knows that she is an inch away from slapping him or (God forbid!) leaning against him. Both reactions are equally likely, equally inappropriate and terrifying. She manages a step or two before she hears him exhale in relief. "Yeah, let's get you checked out."

"No." She has the presence of mind to stop at the words.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Andy asks and it's only now that his worried tone hits her. He's sounded worried above all else and she only realizes that after the deep sigh of relief just now.

She averts her eyes and mumbles into her hair, "Not allowed to leave." Her cheeks feel hot and this is exactly why she can't sleep and concentrate at work or why she manages to get herself injured. Were she actually able to walk, she would put some distance between them but now she is content with slipping her hand from his.

If possible, he sounds even more worried now. "Sharon," he queries way too softly, "did you hit your head?"

Her first instinct is to laugh. Oh, if things were that simple! An amused sniff escapes her. "Of course not." She turns her head to give him her best glare. "FID rules. Must stay at the scene."

"Rules schmules," he huffs and tightens his arm around her waist. "We're getting you out of here." Instead of making a move, he stops, open his mouth and stares ahead. "Uh," he starts after a few long seconds, "Sharon? Are you sure it's the rules?" The concerned eyes are back on hers. "Staying if injured even if not an active participant? Does the rule cover that?"

While she thinks, he tries to give her an encouraging smile. The fingers on her waist stroke smoothing circles up and down her side. Andy tries swallowing the rising panic that makes his stomach feel heavy and chest too tight. She should know her own rules. She's been quiet since he came in, her palm is sweaty and she keeps quietly sniffing her nose. Her pulse seems slightly elevated, her breathing hitching. Maybe this is worse than anyone thought.

Sharon runs through the appropriate section of the rules in her head. Once for general overview, a second time for word-for-word analysis. Is she required to stay if she wasn't an active participant? After a minor injury? Should she be made to stay? She could always request an amendment. She sees how Andy's smile can't quite stay on. He obviously knows he's right on this and she is taking too long.

"Oh," she laughs slightly embarrassed. "That's right. Maybe I did hit my head," she jokes with a roll of her eyes. Instantly her prevalent headache reminds her it's not wise to do that: a flurry of shapes float across her field of vision. She pokes Andy to turn and move forward but he misses the cue. He's too busy staring at her, like if he looks closely enough he can see inside her. See what's wrong. She averts her eyes. "Carry on, Lieutenant." He stiffens. It's the title. She planned on telling him she can manage on her own, but his reaction makes her rethink that. "To the Murder Room," she adds weakly and flashes an encouraging smile of her own.

They start the short walk, which has never felt longer, in tense silence. Sharon bites her lip every time her weight lands on her right leg, but tells herself to suck it up for couple more steps. The warm hand around her waist feels heavy and oppressive, the man beside her feels rigid and unpredictable. She's not felt like this since the very first time she fought with Jack about her work schedule.

She came home late, they were supposed to leave for a family gathering, Emily was teething and Jack had been snappy all week. He tried to pick a fight with her, but Sharon didn't have the time. 'Suck it up, your choice,' she told him and they went out, pretended to be on good terms but ultimately left early to fight it out and make it up. The fight was explosive and short, she still can't remember how or why it ended, and the making up was explosive but not short. Jack even called their babysitter to keep Emily for the night, pretending they were stuck at their parents'. Sharon doesn't remember whose parents he used as an excuse or if she heard it at all: she was too busy with trying to juggle going down on him and not laughing at how breathless he sounded.

Before she can stop, her mind goes on to picture a similar progression from her current situation. Her cheecks flush. Her mind acts weird now, has acted weird for the past day. Never before she confused things like this. Never before has she thought of him like this. There is no way she wants to spend any more time this close to Andy than necessary. Out of the corner of her eye she sees how the soft concern of earlier is gone but now he frowns at every change in her expression.

At the threshold Andy's had enough. Wordlessly he tightens his grip on her waist and pulls her so close their hips bump. The damn woman can't accept help and it is going to take them forever to get anywhere where he can bully her into medical assistance. Her physical reactions are all over the place and he has no clue what to do. He thinks she might be going a little pale. A shade paler than she was just now, for sure. At least the change in their proximity seems to help with her walking. Her step falters, but she picks up speed. At least until they run into Buzz who stops them to ask all the usual questions.

Sharon tries to smile at Buzz's concern. It comes out a little tense, but it is a smile. She assures him the best she can. While he rambles in his worry and asks for the third time if there is anything he can do, Sharon senses Andy's frown deepening and before he can tell Buzz to take a hike, she manages to convince Buzz to return to work. There are hours and hours of CCTV footage they need to go through. Buzz offers to call Rusty or anyone she likes, but Sharon politely declines. He throws in a fourth offer to do anything to help before going back into Electronics.

As soon as Buzz returns to his CCTV film, Andy hitches Sharon tighter against his side. The ankle is not looking so hot and the more time they spend dawdling around the ninth floor the worse she looks. Her bottom lip's already red and bothered which is a stark contrast to her porcelain complexion. He needs to get her sitting down and resting if nothing else, so he moves her across the Murder Room and stands her to lean against his desk while he scourges for a couple of chairs. He pulls the extra office chair in front of her and pats the backrest signalling for her to take a seat. When she does, he pulls the nondescript visitor chair closer. She doesn't take the subtle cue to raise her foot to rest on it.

"Sharon, you look a little pale." He watches her lips part, but no answer is forthcoming. "I'd like to call the paramedics now, and get you a glass of water. Is there anything you need?"

"Don't call the paramedics. The water I will take," Sharon says as she concentrates on rotating her ankle. If she doesn't account the wince taking over her face it's not bad. Not bad at all. She glances up and sees Andy frowning down on her. "Thank you," she adds in hopes the frown is for lack of manners. Deep inside she knows it's probably not. During the past months they have slowly moved past the point where a missed courtesy stops mattering. The point where your appreciation gets shown more than masked in impersonal platitudes. It has been her mistake really. At least the bigger part of it. "I'm fine," she says. "I don't need the hassle."

"The hassle! It's fifteen minutes, tops." She worries her lip again and his hands find his hips. "I think I better call them and so do you if you think about it for a second." Sharon's back to her own world like no one said anything. "Sharon?" She hums, she is listening, then looks at him and shakes her head. "I can't believe!" He throws his arms out in frustration. "It could make a real difference in whether you are walking or not!"

"A little dramatic, don't you think?" He shoots her one of the meanest looks Sharon's ever seen from him. She waits for him to calm down a bit before reassuring, "I'm feeling fine. I don't need it."

"It's still a smart precaution," he tries, adding a trump card, "Besides, it's the rules."

She scoffs. "It's not and it's not necessary even if it was." He crosses his arms and the scowl deepens exponentially. "You yourself pointed out that this incident didn't fall under their scope," Sharon reminds him, maybe a little aloof judging by his huffs and puffs. "You can't have it both ways."

"I still think it's plain stupidness to not get your leg at least looked —"

"It's fine Lieutenant," she interrupts him sternly. "And it's 'stupidity'."

"So it's alright for you to correct my sarcasm but not for me to correct yours?"

"As long as I outrank you."

They stare at each other. The air frizzes with unfamiliar tension and Sharon's head throbs in time with her heart. Suddenly having this and everything else out in a fiery shouting match (and what that might or might not lead to) doesn't seem that far out. If possible, she feels even more lightheaded at the revelation. Breathless, even. It does explain some things, though. She never thought about their relationship as an evolution of something from start to finish, from the moment they met to how they end. Not until last night and her little 'misstep'. Since then she's barely thought nothing but. And this moment here, him glaring down on her in their always drafty office, them, very figuratively, standing on the cusp of something unraveling, makes her a bit scared.

"Captain, I think you —"

"Fine, Lieutenant," she snaps. "I said it was fine."

"Captain —"

"For the last time, Andy, drop it," she says firmly in hopes of getting them both to back off. There's so much she wants to say but is too afraid to, so many things she's afraid he'll say. The smile she flashes him in placation comes out unsteady but, she hopes, tells him that she, on principle, appreciates his concern. She needs him to be able to relate to her, both in and out of the office, no matter how mixed up and messed up she feels. But she also needs him to give her a little time. Because, if anything, this is mixed up and messed up. All of it.


	4. Chapter 4

While he gets her water, even if it seems to take a little long, Sharon dials Taylor's number to report her silly little mishap only to discover Provenza already has. With quick assurances of benching herself — despite feeling very well and seeking medical advice (though she doesn't mention she plans on doing it tomorrow, at the earliest; she thinks that acquiescing to have her leg elevated on that free visitor's chair she noticed lying about is a concession enough) — she hangs up and turns her attention to the piles of paper on Andy's desk. She glances quickly through the topmost pages and, by the chicken scratch he dares to call notes, identifies the piles he's not gone through. Reaching across his desk for a pen, she sees a legal pad beside the keyboard. She cringes. The way he makes notes is abysmal. Andy's handwriting is absolutely fine when he bothers with making an effort but the quick things he jots down mostly for his own benefit border on unreadable. Sharon's made numerous attempts at deciphering but can't wrap her mind around them. She is convinced not all of them are actual letters, and he knows shorthand well enough for that to be the case, but he is always adamant these notes he writes in longhand. In case someone else needs them.

Andy comes back to Sharon reading. He places a glass of water maybe a little too forcefully on the desk with a terse grumble of 'there'. She exchanges the sheet she's been reading for the glass and nods. He settles into his chair, moves things around on the desk, fishes out another pen to replace the one she stole and starts working and silently seething at the impossibility of this woman. At least she is making herself useful now, though the mean part of him wonders if she is in full control of her mental capabilities at the moment. The immediate worry and concern gone, he can fully embrace the ire and annoyance she so well entices in him. Stubborn, annoying, confusing woman! Things would be so many hundred times better if she would just let her guard down even for a second. But oh no, it's like they hardly know each other even if the only thing he wants is to help. Doesn't the woman realize she's not alone? He lets out a discontented grunt.

Andy hears her taking a deep breath in preparation to say something. She is however interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

Sharon pretends to keep reading while she listens to the disjointed comments and grunts he makes. He sounds tense and ticked off and she can't decide if she's glad the soft and comforting Andy is gone. This certainly feels more familiar. But he's not usually this harsh with everyone and she fears there is going to be a blow-up that will end up on her former desk. She doesn't want that for him so she resolves herself to trying to calm him down.

The call goes on in short comments from him, longer pauses filled from the other end. When he finally hangs up and throws the phone on the desk, he barely looks in her direction. "Sanchez. Cruher's booked. Hollywood's dealing with him but looks like his being at the scene was just a happy coincidence. One more dirtbag with an offensive weapon off the streets."

He turns a page and reads while he keeps talking. "The manager gave his statement. Chris Evans, 38. Manager at the place for the past three years. Says the boss could be an asshole but an incompetent one who was there less than he was away so he wasn't that pissed off. Evans made okay money and took Christmas bonuses and thinks a job is a job. Wife, uh, the victim's that is, uh, Wanda, came by sometimes with the kid, but not really spent any time. Not interested in the business. Wanted Mr. Martin to buy her own beauty salon but he didn't seem too interested. There's an ex-wife too but she doesn't live around here and wanted nothing to do with the victim. Evans only knew of her, but not even a name. Sanchez looked it up, a Louann Wilson these days. No kids, 46. Divorced good ten years ago. Doesn't seem connected."

Sharon hums her agreement. She doesn't comment in any other way but silently wonders why he never thought to put Julio on speaker.

"He's talking with FID. Amy's waiting." Andy's teeth grit. Still she doesn't comment.

A quiet minute passes between them. Sharon's identified several questionable cash withdrawals and even some discrepancies in the accounting. They must be blatant if even someone with next to no experience can spot them.

"Did the manager know about these financial issues?" she asks.

"Unclear," he answers and that's that.

Sharon tries going back to the printouts, but the morning lightheadedness is well on its way to a full-fledged migraine. The hurt ankle doesn't feel much like anything, the shin however feels hot and the calf muscles crampy. She is way too tired to deal with a snarky and snipey Andy Flynn but she is also way too proud to admit defeat and go home. She can do this, it's just light reading. Only one day and she'll sleep well tonight.

She is startled from her own thoughts by something hitting the edge of his desk and that something proffered into her direction.

"You can be difficult about it," he says and still he doesn't look at her, "but it's activated now. It either goes on your ankle or in the trash. Which one, is entirely up to you."

In his hand is a single-use emergency ice pack. She guesses he got it while he went to get her that water but doesn't remember seeing it before. She has half a mind to throw the pack in the trash just to show him she can manage the throbbing not-quite-pain hurt. That she doesn't need his patronizing, his help, his anything. That she doesn't need him. Not at all. That is obviously the petty part of her brain. Grudgingly she leans forwards to grab the offending item and without a word gently lets the pack drop on her outstretched ankle before taking a second to rest before returning to her reading.

Andy in turn smiles at his pile of reports. That went better than he thought. Her closing her eyes and resting her weight fully on the backrest of her chair is enough of a thank you for him. She has been tense and fidgety, but far be it from her to ask for any help. Even if she asked, he thinks he might be past providing it. No, what he is contemplating is the most efficient way to make her go home. She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be sitting there reading boring spreadsheets full of numbers that even normally, without any physical discomfort, blend together. But he knows she won't listen, so he says nothing. Instead he steals a glance at the long pale column of her stretched out neck and the traces the way her dark curls flow along her cheek, barely revealing her pearl earrings. His nose registers a memory of the smell right there, under the bone of her jaw, the warm pulse of her veins transforming the fragrance he'd smelled countless times before into something unique.

He looks away and huffs. She is a distraction and damn him for letting himself be distracted.

The irritated sound makes her straighten up and stop enjoying the coolness spreading up her bones. She focuses on the man before her. His mood is horrible and she gets that, but only partly. What they do outside these walls should be well separated from what they have here and the fact that he seems so irritated only serves to confirm it's not likely to work. She might be doing the right thing but he doesn't see it. On this they don't seem to agree nor be able to work together.

She likes it, the honest way they usually work together. They are good together. They understand each other. The strength of their working relationship has come as a surprise to everyone, not least to themselves. It's good to know she has a partner and she hasn't had that in a while. Sure she trusted and liked working with her people in IA, but it was so much different. She was different. More of a boss of her people, but now she feels like an integral part of the team. That's certainly not something she wants to lose and she feels the rift between getting wider and wider the longer she stays quiet.

"It's not that I want to be difficult," she starts in what she hopes is her off-duty voice, "but..." He snorts. So much for trying to offer an olive branch. "Okay. Never mind." She bites her lip and lowers her gaze to her work. She's hurt. They've never been this out of sync before. The knowledge that she is mostly at fault pinches the bottom of her stomach. They shouldn't have to talk about this here.

"What do you want me to say, Sharon? If you come looking for absolution, you're coming to the wrong guy." He is purposefully rough and unkind and he think it works. Her hair falls forward and she doesn't reach to pull it aside as she normally would when having a conversation. "I'm pissed as hell, Sharon."

"Okay. Never mind." She looks away fearing the gritty feel in her eyes is due to something more urgent than a long day reading and an even longer night not sleeping. "Never mind," she repeats and silently curses the damn leg that prevents her from running. Her lips press together into thin white lines. She's made a mess of so many things, all infinitely more precious than she's realized. He hates her now and she might well deserve.

He raises his eyes enough to study her fidgeting. She looks uncomfortable and he can't bear it. He doesn't want to be kind with her because it hasn't gotten him anything this far, but he doesn't want to make her cry either. That's more a punishment on him than her, and he thinks she's been humiliated enough recently. Maybe she is honest in her peace offerings, maybe she is trying to reach out like he's wanted for her to do for hours on end and now she's only going to clam up further because he wants to make his point.

"Sharon," he sighs. "I know you're the Captain," he says softly and she chances a look into his warm mahogany eyes, "but what I'm having a hard time with is that, uh, well, I thought..." What did he think? He doesn't really remember it all, but it certainly revolved around him deserving a hell of a lot more and her being a good damn bit more... No, he probably didn't think at all but the more he thinks where that got him, he knows he deserves to be right. "I think," he corrects, "that me and you, you and I, that we –"

"Okay!" Her palms are raised, her eyes gone wide, she is not far from shouting, "I don't want to talk!"

He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. Figures. She wants to talk but doesn't want to hear. Or maybe she is afraid to hear what he says. He stops and tilts his chin. She avoids his scrutiny and resorts to the nervous habit of rubbing her lips together. He squints. "Okay. But this isn't the last of it, you hear?" He rarely uses expressions that assertive with her, and never here, but he wants there to be no mistaking, no discounting, of his opinions.

She acquiesces with a tiny nod and goes back to her reading. The last page of the current spreadsheet is a relief. There's just too much meaningless data for her to stay focused today. The next document looks like the business registry entries on the dealership. Sharon scans the three page document quickly to establish a timeline. After doing that, she goes to read the whole thing from top to bottom. At the first mention of Mr. Martin, she shoots straighter in her seat, dislodging the ice pack.

"Hold on!"

Andy stops. "What?"

"Why didn't you say the dealership had another owner?" Her eyes are wide as she snaps her focus on him. "Andy, you can't miss details like that!"

"Hold on," he defends himself with both palms raised. "I didn't miss anything. I told you the victim's been the owner for eighteen months. It's not my fault you're spacing out at work."

Her mouth goes dry at his implication. "What?" she asks in a low, dangerous tone. He misses the warning.

"Don't deny it. You're not all here. Haven't been the whole day. Go home, Sharon."

She stops to stare at him. Only the hum of the air conditioning fills the space around them. This is low, low even for him. He never blames others on his mistakes and never, never attacks another's performance. The fact that he is doing it to her, now, feels more than a little petty and a lot convenient.

"Don't you dare call me unprofessional."

"Yeah?" He is completely unfazed by her threatening words. If anything, they spur him to goad her. He can be petty and vindictive when he wants to, when he feels righteous in his hurt, and they both know it. He likes to keep consistent and provide another example. At best it will get her to run home. "Don't you call me unprofessional. Just because you are acting all Catholic schoolgirl on me —"

"Shut up."

He sneers at her. "What, I don't get any say in anything? No, of course not, it's all about —"

"Shut up!" She's never raised her voice to him like that. Never. Only enough to be heard, but in general she has found the quieter she talks the quieter the other person will become. Now she can't stop herself from shouting. Her heart races again so much she is afraid she might faint. She licks her lips, her hands tremble. "I will —"

Her sentence is cut off with a panicked call of her name.


	5. Chapter 5

"Sharon," Rusty's panicked call rings through the deserted office, "what the hell happened?" He bounds in through the squad room with the usual grace of a teenager. Seeing Sharon in there with the team wasn't unheard of, but seeing her shoes lying on the floor is a first. She never takes her shoes off unless she is alone. When his eyes landed on the leg resting on the chair, all the alarm bells were ringing. Now he is firmly beside himself.

Sharon looks around, startled. Her heart is still thumping in her lungs and her fingers shake. She searches for the pockets in her blazer. Her hair is sticking to her face, but she doesn't risk bringing her shaky hands back in view. A small flip has to do.

"Rusty," she breathes out in realization. Then she remembers, "Language. And nothing happened."

As Rusty threw a packed lunch on an empty desk and stalked closer for a better look, Andy mumbled from his reports, "Yeah, the sort of nothing that involves a 300 pound suspect, the edge of a door and five inch heels."

Sharon shoots him a glare. Whatever the troubles and tensions between them, she doesn't need him rattling Rusty. Can't he see the boy is not himself? Or is this just his special brand of helping again?

"What!" As expected, Andy's comment gets the boy. Rusty stops midway, places his hands on his hips.

"Rusty, it's fine," Sharon appeases. "There was an incident with a suspect — who, by the way, wasn't 300 pounds nor really a suspect — and my heel — which is a sensible three and one quarter —" she hears a disparaging snicker from across the desk but ignores Andy, "— and my heel hit the door while I was getting out of the way. Slightly bumped my ankle," she finishes.

Andy opens his mouth to jump in with some sort of a comment, but catches Sharon's look. The one look that clearly tells him shutting the hell up would be very prudent at the moment. He gets the message and diverts his attention to Rusty who has gotten closer and is kneeling beside her leg. Even very recently Andy might have been of the opinion that the boy is nothing but self-centered and doesn't have the capacity to care for anyone else, but looking how carefully he moves around her he has to consider if Sharon's done a lot more good than he's thought. They boy grinds his teeth and his face is filled with anger, but his actions are slow and caring. His fingers hesitate before pulling the ice pack against his other palm so that it doesn't make any sudden movements against her leg or the chair.

"That ankle's purple!" he shouts in horror.

A smirk taking over her lips, Sharon only hums. "It's a good thing my outfit matches."

"Sharon!" he whines, clearly not in any mood for her rueful humor. He looks disgusted and horrified, barely managing to draw his eyes from the reds and blues masking the usually elegant lines of her lower leg. And it's not just the color that looks wrong, it's also the swelling filling the spaces between muscles and tendons.

"I'm sorry, Rusty," she says and leans over to gently tuck the ice out of his hand, "but you are making a big deal of something that most certainly isn't."

Andy watches the interactions with interest. He has seen her mother before, plenty of times, so the tones she uses and the warm pushing for space isn't unfamiliar. No, what he is more interested in is how caring of her the boy seems, how empathetic, and especially how she accepts the boy's concern. This far she has been retreating from himself, in actions as well as emotionally. He wonders if that is something to do with her inability to accept any care, her unaccustomedness to him — or any other adult — showing he cares or the... whatever it was that happened between the two of them before Rusty arrived.

Honestly, if the boy hadn't arrived, he would have apologized by now.

Sharon hides her ankle with the ice pack again, then leans back. Rusty keeps his eyes on the ankle, like the pack is see-through. "How do you know it's not broken?" he wonders.

"Because I do." When the mom reason fails to impress the teenager, she sighs. "If it was, I couldn't move, let alone be walking."

Andy wants to point out she hasn't been walking recently, so she might be a little mistaken on that. Adrenaline and everything. He knows if he were stupid enough to say that out loud, she would get up and walk just to prove him she could. No matter how much the leg hurt. And by the fidgeting and the stiffness in her body, he's guessing it does hurt more than she would like to admit. More than she will admit. He sighs again.

"What?" Rusty asks, but doesn't let her answer as he gets up to confront Andy. "She's been walking? When did this happen?"

"Dunno, maybe ten-ish, a little later."

"How can you let her walk around! And in those heels!" Sharon reaches for Rusty's elbow to get him step back but he shrugs her off.

"Hey, have you met her?" Andy snarks back, "There's nothing anyone can 'let' her do!"

"I so appreciate the way you talk to me. Like I was actually in the room," Sharon remarks all too sweetly.

Both guys turn to her. Both have their arms bunched and brows scrunched into a scowl. Where Andy is happy to send her a look clearly telling her to keep out of it, Rusty goes for a patronizing scold. "Sharon," he says, "sarcasm isn't helping right now."

"Of course not." She waves her hand in mock acquiescence and tries to keep the amusement out of her voice. Rusty seems to accept her continuing sarcasm as straightness and turns back to Andy.

"I thought you had first aid."

"Yeah, we do. She wouldn't have it." In part Andy is happy at least someone is seeing this in the same rational manner as he is. But how is it his fault that she is not on that particular boat?

Sharon mutters, "It's just an ankle," but the guys don't listen.

"You should have insisted!" Rusty nearly screams.

"What would you've liked me to do? Carry her?"

"Yes!"

"Rusty!" She's unsure if she objects to his raised voice or the idea of Andy Flynn carrying her anywhere. As tense as their relations seemed right now, him carrying her damn better involve fierce bleeding and fleeting consciousness. Now, if asked a day or so ago she might have come up with other reasonable and pleasant scenarios, but those wouldn't have involved the PAB or the paramedics. She is mildly shocked her brain is willing to go in those directions even after the ugliness of their earlier interaction. "No one's carrying me anywhere," she tells the boy. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Andy shooting the kid a 'see, told you' look and tighten the bunch of his arms.

"I'm still saying you should have had someone to look at it," Rusty tries more tempered.

"It's fine. It's not my first twisted ankle." When that doesn't seem to appease the sullen teenager, she heaves a sigh. "Rusty, if it was bad, I would have done something about it. I'm not too proud to sit down or take my shoes off if my foot hurts." That sounds like an unfortunate admission so she worries her lower lip. Unwittingly her eyes seek Andy's and the look that crosses them confirms that they both are thinking of the same thing. Last night everything that went to hell started with her taking off her shoes. As she lowers her face behind her hair, she doesn't analyze if the smirk on him is honest or simply meant to disparage her.

Rusty tilts his head and considers her. "Yeah," he relents, "whatever. But you are not, not, wearing those shoes any more!"

She blinks at him. "Rusty, they are my only shoes. I can't be walking around without any shoes on for the rest of the day!"

"You might consider coming home. Then no shoes wouldn't be an issue," Rusty points out. Andy wants to jump up and pump his fist but restrains, too engrossed in watching the scene. Before Sharon can construct an answer, the boy turns on his heel, goes back to the desk he passed coming in and brings her the packed lunch. "I'll get you shoes. I guess you still have the ones you had in your trunk," he says and goes into her office.

Sharon follows him trying to come up with any sort of image of said shoes. She doesn't remember them, hasn't got any idea which shoes he means.

He returns with her laptop under his arm, hands it off to her along with her purse. "I need keys," he says simply. He would never go digging around in her things and from what Sharon gathers he might be a little scared of what he might find there. But she is boring: it's only the daily necessities and all in their separate pockets where possible, and the more feminine things are under a zipper in a very discreet black makeup pouch. There is nothing anyone but a teenage boy would find embarrassing in her purse.

She opens the zipper, goes straight for the left inside side pocket and digs out the key. Even the key ring is nondescript, practically masculine and impersonal silver coin tag. She hands both the key and the purse back.

"I don't know, honey," she hesitates, "I don't even remember the shoes. I can't wear wellies or gardening slippers at work."

He rolls his eyes. "No," he stretches out, "they were just your regular shoes. You know, what they call them, ballet heels?"

Andy collapses down on his chair with a bark of laughter. "Figures," he says.

"Hey," Rusty turns and shoots him a disapproving glance, "I'm no expert in women's footwear. Some flats."

Oh, to be that young and that innocent, Andy muses. Or at least a little less old and twisted, he corrects. Well, Sharon does love her high heels, he thinks and laughs twice as hard.

"Ballerinas, they are called ballerinas," Sharon helps without sparing a second to Andy's reaction.

"Yeah, those," the boy says, "I'll go get them." With that he sprints back to her office, goes behind her desk and places the purse back where he found it.

Sharon squints at the laughing man in front of her. She doesn't get the joke and isn't the least amused by him laughing at her son. Foster son, she corrects her thought. Increasingly often she's found herself thinking of Rusty as hers even if he would be mortified of thinking he belonged to someone. She has gotten attached and she fears he is not nearly as attached to the life he has with her. Sooner or later they would need to discuss that, but she doesn't have the heart to spook him (while in truth the idea circling in her head spooks herself quite possibly just as much).

Only last week she mentioned this to Andy. He listened, but didn't say a word. Sharon thinks she knows what he wanted to say but didn't. Didn't, because she wasn't nowhere near ready to hear it. He is such a gentle soul with her. Usually. When she's not being a complete bitch, that is. She shouldn't be such a bitch to him. She tilts her head, considers him and his dying mirth. She exhales, heavy and hard.

"Andy, —"

"Okay, Sharon," Rusty interrupts bounding back from her office, "I'll run. Give me your shoes."

"Honey," she says before realizing to redirect her gaze. All too sudden the mood gets awkward again. She wets her lips. "Rusty. I'm not sure they are work appropriate."

"You are wearing them or you are going barefoot." He stops next to her. One hand on his hip, one brow raised and head tilted in something that's eerily Sharon. Adds, "No discussion." The boy leans down, picks up the heel lying on the floor and gestures in the give signal for the other. She hesitates, but under the stares of the two males, takes off the other shoe and hands it over. Satisfied and determined, Rusty exits the room with speed.

"You know he gets that from you, don't you?" Andy says astonished. "Congrats on another mini-Raydor, he definitely takes after you."

Hiding her eyes with one hand she sighs. "I desperately hope he wouldn't." Andy laughs.

"That's the trouble with kids. You hope they would grow up to be like you, then they do and you're screwed."

"I certainly wished none of my kids would turn out to be like me," Sharon says and lets the hand fall. She understands her flaws, maybe better than anyone, and sometimes they seem overwhelming. It comes from living with them, from always hitting her head on the same wall. She worries the hem of her blazer.

Andy, however, wonders why the mood filled with a sweet mixture of embarrassment and amusement drops to something between sad and regretful. All he meant was to say he thinks she is a great person, has a good heart and solid values, even if it does go hand in hand with strong will and clear opinions. From where he is looking, any kid would be lucky to grow up to be just like her. The prototype seems pretty perfect to him, so he wouldn't wonder if her parenting method was all about making the kids into little Sharons.

"Hey," he tries distracting her, "I'm sure you did an amazing job with all of them. If Rusty is any indication, they are very much like you, very much good people. People should give you the 'world's best mom' title for keeps and be done with it."

Sharon smiles, wanly. "Sweet of you to say it, but you don't know me." However, the truth is he probably knows her more than most. That's thing that makes their current predicament a little harder to swallow. She sighs, picks on the edge of her laptop. "It's not you," she says, "I..." She licks her lips for courage. "I avoid."

Andy is about to comment, ask, when she raises her eyes to meet his and the look on her is like she never said anything at all. "Would you be kind and get me another glass of water? Maybe another ice pack," she asks pointing at the one resting on her ankle.

He nods and gets up, knowing the moment is effectively over. She wants it that way, and he understands it after the, apparently, costly admission. Her asking for help, any help, is a pretty great step in the right direction in itself so on this he is happy to accommodate her.

As soon as he goes around the corner, Sharon blows out a long breath. She leans her head back on and over the backrest of the chair. The pounding of her heart has evened out but her head feels woozy still. And the smell of petrol still sticks to her nose, even with the shoes gone. The whole day has been a disaster, an unprecedented muddling of personal and professional.

Her eyes barely close before she is alerted to the ding of Andy's phone. Without conscious thought she finds the object in her hand, her unseeing eyes staring the screen until it goes black. Her lower lip tastes faintly of blood, a certain sign of her having worried it too much.

She only looks up when she hears Andy enter with a "Here you go, Sharon." He walks up to her, offering the ice pack, holding on to the glass of water. There's no sign of him wondering why she has his phone.

She takes the pack, places it on the desk. Now he offers her the water. Sharon's eyes go from his outstretched hand to his eyes.

"Andy, who is Sherry Layton?"


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N:_** _Thanks for all your reviews and messages, I really appreciate the support! I'm really sorry for this chapter, it just didn't want to work... I promise to do better in the future._

* * *

"You know who she is," he sighs and places the water in her reach. Her eyes follow him as he rounds the desk, sets himself down on his chair, straightens his tie and pulls on his jacket. Tucking the chair closer under the desk, he reaches over and gently pulls his phone out of her hand. "Didn't we have this fight already? Because I distinctly remember you yelling —"

"We didn't fight," Sharon interrupts. He contents with tilting his head.

"Yes. Because you yelling at me definitely doesn't sound like 'a fight'," he mumbles, but stops her from going down this particular rabbit hole by quickly continuing, "Sherry Layton is the person you think I missed. As you saw from the message, that was me getting in contact with her so we can rule her out." He gets up again, walks to the board and switches on the screen of his phone. Grabbing a red marker, he jots down a name and a number as he recaps, "Sherry Layton, 44, owned the dealership with the victim until 18 months ago. Will meet us in three hours when she gets off from work."

As he is about to make his way back to his desk, he hears Sykes and Sanchez coming in down the hall. They are full in the middle of a conversation. He looks at his watch. Today FID was quick.

They enter, stop and nod their acknowledgements upon seeing the Captain stretched across two chairs.

"Detectives," Sharon responds to their greetings, "I'm sorry I don't get up but my shoes seem to have been stolen."

Both are confused until Andy passes them and offers an explanation. "Rusty came by. Told her not to even think about wearing those shoes again. Went to get her new ones." Sharon smiles reassuringly, but can't help but wonder about his laconic manner largely reminiscent of the style he uses when rattling off his notes. He doesn't spare her a glance as he returns to his seat. Where he needs to alter his course a bit thanks to the chair she's using to rest her foot on, he busies himself with switching on the screen lock of his phone and pushing it in the pocket of his pants. Sharon's eyes follow his trail even when Amy speaks.

"Well, ma'am, that sounds like an excellent idea. I myself were thinking that maybe you shouldn't go around walking in those things with that ankle of yours," Amy says in her inimitable style of rephrasing the general consensus. Sharon thinks her sweet, but understands Provenza's frustrations as well.

Sanchez in his turn only offers an amused tilt of his head. "No problem, Ma'am."

"So, what's next?" Sharon asks.

Amy walks to her desks, opens a drawer and riffles for something. "We are still going to see the canvas, Ma'am. It's already under way, and then we are going to see the listed employees." Whatever she was searching, she finds and closes the drawer. "I have the list —"

"I got it," Andy interrupts and shifts through a few folders, then holds up a sheet of paper.

"Right. We'll go through that and report back." Amy nods and turns to leave, nodding again as a go-ahead for Julio.

"Good work, Detectives," Sharon says to confirm the plans. "Oh!" she calls them back before they disappear, "How was the..." She nods to the side and hums a nonverbal question.

"It was fine," Julio supplies. "Quick." The corners of his lips quirk. "They kinda hate it too when our Captain gets bulldozed by assholes."

"I did not," Sharon grins. "Thank you," she says in a softer tone, "good work."

As they leave and Sharon orientates back to her work, Andy is already reading. "Go figure," he mumbles, sullen. What she is supposed to 'go' and 'figure', Sharon doesn't know. Frankly, she really doesn't care to even think.

"So, tell me about this Sherry." The look he shoots at her is pure venom and before he has the time to snark about her uselessness in this investigation, she adds, "I have read about her, yes. But I want you to talk her over with me."

He leans back, crosses his fingers in his lap. "Fine." He pauses to study her. "It's not like we know a lot," he starts, then places his crossed hands back on the desk, leans over. "She owned the dealership with the victim for some months. Why that came to be, we don't know. She's not connected to his other businesses."

"We should look at their personal relationships," Sharon concludes.

"Absolutely." He continues, "And we'll be sure to ask when she comes around."

They bounce ideas and discuss strategy for the upcoming interviews for a good half an hour. Neither notices the pass of time until Sharon's phone plings with a text message. She pulls the device from her pocket, quickly swipes the screen to hide the new message notifications and then goes to her message list. 'No shoes in the car. Went home to pick some up. What color is your dress?'

She rolls her eyes and swallows a huff. Andy doesn't miss it. Well, it is a little hard to miss when she hides a laugh in the middle of hashing a plan to help catch a killer. Completely irrationally, the amusement on her face irks him like a pin needle stuck to the sole of his foot. "What?" he barks.

"Rusty." She looks up, hums. "Wants to know what color my dress is." Why? he thinks. Doesn't the kid remember how indescribably her coloring stands out today? How her pale skin glows? And how her dark hair falls in over her collar, mixing in the glorious backdrop of soulful purple? How the fabric looks sleek but utterly touchable?

He clears his throat.

She mistakes the assessing tilt of his head for a question. "So he can bring me shoes," she clarifies before looking back at the screen, thinking of what she should write him. It was so nice of him to ask and not just assume! For a moment she stares into the horizon, relishing in the sweetness of the boy. When Andy taps something on his computer — pretty aggressively so, if she's not lying — she takes in a long breath, holds it for a second and then exhales mumbling to herself, "If I say 'matt aubergine with a dark navy jacket and a gold belt' will he know what is needed?"

"He's a teenaged boy," comes the flippant reply punctuated by a few more pointed keystrokes.

"So no hope."

Sharon tries to think of a response that Rusty would know how to work with. Colors were so subjective and he most likely didn't pay any attention to her attire since he had to ask. And the heels he went home with would be barely any help. She has shoes. Plenty of them. Not obsessively so like some women, but plenty. Some are for work, exclusively, some are for pleasure — very very exclusively so. The usual exercise shoes are next. Then she has the odd pair of 'just popping down to the corner store' footwear she mainly wears at home or when she visits her parents. Even if her ankle hurts, she's still not prepared to give up on all of her standards. No, she needs to think of a specific pair she would feel comfortable wearing in an office environment and he would know how to find with her instructions...

"You know, you could always tell him the exact pair of shoes you want him to find," Andy says, impassive. She gives him a long, long look over the rims of her glasses.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. What will I ever do without you." It isn't a question, but it drips with the right amount of sarcasm, she thinks. He's not fazed.

"Play your cards right," he says like he's paying no mind to what she says or he does, "and you'll never have to do without me."

He wants to look at her so bad, offer a small smirk, a wink, or just to see her reaction to his words. To at least know for sure if she reacts at all! Instead, he keeps staring at the screen in front of him, makes a couple of pointless clicks and highlights some random words. The shuffling in her seat almost makes him break into a grin.

"Andy would you give it a rest," she says instead, goes back to her text message.

He scowls at the screen and highlights a couple other random words. No, of course he was not going to get anything out of her. Why on Earth does he keep trying with her! She has to be the single most unapproachable, tightly wound piece of skirt he's ever met. What does it say about him that until the past twenty-four hours ago he had no doubt they were friends? She is confusing his head and he really needs to get her out of there. By any means necessary.

He hazards a glance at her. She has her own laptop open and she is reading. Her posture is hunched, but yet oddly graceful. Her hair is falling across her forehead, kissing her cheek and all he wants to do is to go over to her and tuck those curls behind her ear, to be rewarded with a smile.

He slams the mouse on the desk. Ostensively to fix the cord or something, but it really is to hear the sound to snap his head out of whatever paths it's getting lost on. In a flash he wonders if he's more angry at her or at his own reaction to her. That kind of a self-awareness doesn't taste all that good. Yeah, he definitely needs to get her out of his head.

"What!" he barks with force that would be enough to get a dozen unruly school kids sit down quietly. Sharon startles nearly dropping the laptop, then scans the room.

"Oh, Mike. Hello." She adjusts her seat. "How long have you been back?"

Mike Tao, standing by Provenza's desk, takes another look at the scene he walked in on a few minutes ago. Captain Raydor is sitting in the Murder Room, by Lieutenant Flynn's desk, reading in her stocking feet. There is an ice pack on the ankle she rests on a chair, another pack of ice (melted, by the looks of it) is on the floor under the chair. Lieutenant Flynn sits at his desks, stares at the screen of his computer and grits his teeth so hard it's almost audible.

All of these things, while out of the ordinary, are not out of the realm of possibility. There are logical explanations to all of these details, but what baffles Tao the most is the way the Captain seems completely oblivious to Flynn's state of mind and rather than looking concerned or sympathetic towards her thanks to her injury, Flynn transmits coldness loud and clear. In fact, since Tao has been in the room, it looks like Flynn hasn't spared her a thought. He certainly hasn't looked at her.

But he is looking daggers straight at him right now, Tao realizes and answers, "Uh... Captain. A couple of minutes." He detangles from Flynn's piercing scowl. "The scene is gone through and the evidence is being logged in as we speak. Someone will be up with them soon. Well, what's not going to the labs and..." he drifts off knowing very well his audience knows how this works. He raises the bags in his hands. "These are the crime scene video for Buzz and some photos for the board."

"Anything interesting?" Sharon asks and pulls her feet down on the floor meaning to swivel her chair around to better face the board. The ice pack gets dislodged and splatches on the floor. Despite Tao waiting, Flynn doesn't get up to pick it up. No, he is content in acting like he didn't see the incident.

"Uh, nothing that jumps up. I mean, out." Tao places the bags on Provenza's desk and pick up the one with photos. "The most interesting thing here is the key, or more accurately, the location of it. We did some preliminary tests with a similar one on the scene and there was no scenario in which it would land where it was found. For starters, it won't land there if you push it out from the other side or slide it in from under the door." He shuffles through the photos and goes to pin the one with the key on the board.

When he turns back, he sees Sharon sliding to the edge of her chair, desperate to get up and move closer to inspect the photo for herself. While she hesitates, Flynn walks straight past her, goes up to the board and studies the new photo. It has series of markers noting the places their different tests got for the key. None comes as close as a few inches. Most of them are on the completely different side of the door altogether.

The Captain gracefully places the balls of her feet on the floor, grabs the handrests to place her weight on them, but then aborts. She leans back, dejected, looks at Flynn's back. Tao thinks he hears a whining hum coming from her before she asks, "Any theories?"

"Plenty," Tao says and looks from the Captain to Flynn's back and back again, "but not one that seems to solve everything. We don't fully understand what's going on there. Buzz and I will go over it all."

"Well, any helpful ideas you might think of, let us know."

"Of course, Ma'am," Tao says, glances at Flynn's back as he crosses to his desk, takes out his technical bag of tricks in case they might help. Then he goes back, picks up the videos, and exits the room.

Andy keeps looking at the photo like he could single-handedly solve something it has already taken some bright minds several hours to come to no conclusions. The only conclusion he can come to is hitting a meeting or two or six when the day is done. He needs the distraction of others' crappy life stories. His own day is going shitty enough for needing to find some solace in peer support. Just to know someone else's struggling.

Because he is struggling. Struggling with her attitude and struggling with his self-control.

"It's love."

He turns at her soft words. Her toes rest on the tiled floor like feathers and she looks smaller than ever. And all for missing her power heels. Perceptions are funny things.

"it's not money — he didn't have any, it's not robbery — nothing's missing, it's not random — he was found in a locked room. It's not racial — there is no message sent. What's left?"

"Hate. Anger. Revenge."

She looks at her toes. "Aren't those the same thing?" Picking up her legs, she swivels them on the chair with which her right leg's become very familiar. She tucks on the hem of her dress. It won't reach her knees. "Interconnected to all hell?"

He watches her, returns to his desk. "Not all love turns to hate," he says sitting down.

"Not all hate needs love," she concedes, "But nothing here, nothing, hints at a business deal going wrong. Not paying a loan? Why bother locking the body in the office? Isn't the point to send a message? I don't know. I feel there's something missing, something we don't see. What's the divorce for, for example? I'm struggling for a reason."

"Sharon," he says, waits for her to search for eye contact over the desk, "I know there's a lot we're missing." She nods, quietly, teases her lower lip again. Well, he thinks seeing that nervous habit he wants to soothe for the millionth time today, at least there is a lot he is missing.


	7. Chapter 7

She finally decided on two-toned, purple and navy ballerinas. Those Rusty would know by shape and saying 'half purple, half navy, top half purple' was pretty much as explicit as it came. To add, she even knew where they were: 'my closet, second row on the left, behind the shelves'. The facts that they won't exactly match her outfit or be something she really likes (why does every shoe she likes have heel?) are just something she has to live with.

Besides, whatever footwear Sharon might have to deal with is becoming more more insignificant. She is not far from calling it a night. Andy has hinted at her a few times in the past hour that maybe she should go home, take a pain killer, sleep on it and try again tomorrow. The suggestion of a pain killer is most likely thanks to her obsessive habit of rubbing her temples that more recently is accompanied by the gentle teasing of her shoulders. The chair nor the position she sits in does any favors to her back. Which does no favors to her headache. Which does no favors to her mood. Which is evidenced by the way she has gone from politely declining Andy's suggestions, to ignoring them to being sarcastic and snippy about them. This far, thankfully, only in her head.

During the first incident of her struggling to bite her tongue after a 'go home, Sharon', Rusty returns with her shoes. This reminds of her why she is being so stubborn, that the only thing stopping her from leaving with Rusty is the conversation she is sure they are going to get into later. She is so not looking forward to that.

She barely listens to Rusty venting about her shoes and probably her stupidity too if the frustrated nods and nearly onesyllabic comments to the affirmative from Andy are any indication. They can hold a conversation on their own well enough, so Sharon stays in her own head, wondering if 'complete fatigue of men not being able to leave her alone' would be an acceptable reason for a sick leave since the leg is definitely not. The thought amuses her. Then she comes to think how this is totally the wrong way she would like some man, for once, to not be able to leave her alone. When was she last on a date? Last in a party? Last being checked out by someone? So long ago she doesn't even remember. She smirks at the maudlin turn. Then again, maybe using that reason would score her compassionate leave if the person in HR was a woman. The thought makes her laugh out loud.

"You are not taking this seriously at all, are you?" Andy asks, his annoyance snapping her out of her own diversions. Instantly she sobers up; oh, yeah, him. She's still not used to her mind blacking out at the most inopportune times. He again stares daggers at her while she fights the heat rising to her cheeks. She concentrates on his shirt sleeves which are getting all wrinkled with the tight bunch his arms continuously seek. The jacket he got rid of again sometime after Tao came with the photos, after he went somewhere he didn't care to share with her, after he talked on the phone with whom she suspects was Provenza.

"No," she sighs as the flush has peaked, "can't say that I am. I have you two taking this seriously enough for all of us, probably for the whole PD."

"Sharon!" Rusty whines. "It's your leg. Your leg. If you had broken it, in fact, if it is broken, it's a big deal. You wouldn't be able to come to my graduation or anything."

"Rusty." Her heart melts at the concern he shows but at the same time she fights to keep from laughing. "Four months is plenty of time for healing a broken ankle."

"Not if you are a stubborn mule and won't see someone who actually has the training to tell you if it was broken in the first place." Even Andy's voice scowls. He is still not happy about anything in how this little incident with the leg injury has gone down. He especially dislikes her attitude which right then manifests itself in rolling of her eyes.

"It's not broken," she dismisses. "I will tell you it hurts, but it doesn't hurt that bad. My leg, my stubborness, my problem."

The men sigh in unison. Sharon considers dragging Buzz out there to show them the video evidence of it not being that big of a deal, frame by frame. She still hasn't seen it for herself but can imagine what it looks like. She can also imagine in what a stunt like that would result.

"If it helps you, if it's worse tomorrow," she qualifies, "I will see a doctor. With X-rays and all."

Rusty nods, enthusiastic, and Andy raises his palms. "Hey, like you say, it's your leg. Just know that I will not be carrying you anywhere." He returns to his seat. Before settling, he points out, "And it's not me breaking the rules this time."

Rusty raises an eyebrow but keeps quiet. He's curious, maybe seeing a way to convince Sharon to leave with him. Before he can get ahead of himself, Sharon's focus shifts to Andy.

"Well, thank you for clearing that up." She smirks at him, then turns to Rusty and reaches for the shoes he still holds. Leaning over, she places them on the chair next to her purple ankle. The pack still lies on the floor, almost under the lip of Andy's desk. "It's not that I don't appreciate you getting these for me, but I would have been totally fine with —"

"No."

She tilts her head, startled, looks at the boy. "No?"

"No."

"Okay."

In silence she watches Rusty go. He throws a "See you home later," and a "Call me, I'll pick you up," over his shoulder. 'Home'. She can't wipe the silly grin. 'Home' always sounds so good coming from him. It gives her courage and hope. Any other day she would have shared the moment, the thoughts with Andy, but not today. This is one part of her over which she can't bear to take snide comments. Her and Rusty's relationship is too fragile and precious for that. As she fears, from her peripheral vision she catches the look on Andy's face.

He is hard pressed not to laugh at witnessing someone setting her in her place. It rarely happens but he is not surprised her kids, including Rusty, can. Nor is he surprised she lets them. From everything he has learnt during the months of being her friend, of going out with her, of listening to her and finally seeing her — the real Sharon — he knows her kryptonite. Kids, always the kids. Heck, even his grandsons can already wrap her around their little fingers and what's more, she goes willingly.

"And don't you go snickering."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Captain," he deadpans.

He smiles when she tries to look stern. A sparkle threatens to take over her eyes. His reply eases her worry and redeems him a little. This is almost like normal, almost like she could talk to him. Maybe they are not so far apart...

"Captain, Lieutenant." An uniform enters, carrying a box. Evidence.

"Thank you," Sharon smiles, gestures at a desk. "You can leave it anywhere."

The uniform nods, wisely moves past Provenza's desk and selects the next empty one to lay the cardboard box down. Obviously he has been with them long enough to know you don't leave 'stuff' on Provenza's desk. He comes over, offers Sharon a clipboard and a pen and they change custody of the items. She doesn't point out she can't go through them to verify they are all there. It just has to do for now.

While she signs her name, Andy moves to the box, removes the lid and does a cursory check of what they have to work with. It isn't much but it tells a story of its own. He picks up the bags with keys. One with a single key, no key ring. That one is the one from the safe. The other key has a ring with a small cardboard tag on a cotton string hanging from it. The tag is generic, one of those little things jewellers use to write their prices on things. A little bigger, though. But not by much. He places the bags on the writing pad, goes for the next. The victim's wallet. Not much to look at through the plastic so he places that aside as well. The officer passes him with an acknowledgement of his rank. Andy barely grunts.

The next bag has the shards of a broken glass. It was found beside the desk in the back office, cracked into five pieces and some small crumble in the bottom of the bag. The glass has black stains now where SID searched for prints. The bag goes on top of the wallet, clinks faintly as it slides on the desk. In the next bag, there is a snickers wrapper, a couple of creased memo squares and an empty packet of raisins. All found on the floor, the memo squares in balls, and Andy remembers the cleaner complaining how the victim didn't really understand the concept of waste baskets.

In the last three bags there are the other items found on the floor. One is a novelty style name plaque, a little more elaborate than what Andy has on his desk and not nearly as sleek as what Sharon has on hers, a few pens and a tin cup the victim obviously used to house those pens. The largest item is a stout desk lamp, clearly an imitation through and through; the shade plastic. Printed as well, but from the smudges it looks like nothing useful was found.

The last bag has papers: forms and printouts. Andy unzips the bag, glances through the sheets. A couple of half filled out titles for new cars, a receipt of a used car sold to the dealership, two copies of duty rosters, few e-mails making enquiries to certain cars and ordering specific models, few handwritten notes of no real consequence ('Anton, pick up the dry cleaning, PLEASE!' and 'Emily won't come on Thursday, sick'). Andy picks up two forms, looks at them side by side to compare handwritings, trying to pick up at least something useful. Everything seems so random and not important enough. The only leads they think they have are all to do with seeing whether it was the wife or the less than aboveboards business associates. He sighs just as he hears a meaningful clearing of throat.

His eyes slide up to peer over the edges of the papers he's holding.

Sharon looks at him, arms in a bunch, brows crunched and one leg up, the other firmly planted on the floor as if she's decided on getting up soon. She doesn't say a word, just waits.

He sighs. Rubs his face. "Shar... Can't we even..." His voice full of desperation makes her look down on her lap. "Look," he starts again, "I get what you are saying and —"

"Not here," she says softly without looking up. She acts like there is someone watching them, as if any movement might give that imaginary outside observer a clue about them, about how bad they've tangled up their relationship.

"Okay." He sighs and rubs his face again. "Okay. But I'm not a monster," he says making a neat stack of the papers he has been reading. Sharon's eyes snap to his face. Her lips part, but she just stares at him. "We can chalk last night under... I don't know," he continues. "Whatever you want."

Sharon's eyes flit around the room. She shifts in her seat and her heel jerks off the sloping edge of the chair on which it's been resting. The sudden movement elicits a whine of pain from her. Andy rushes from behind the desk laden with the evidence and crouches down beside her ankle. He inspects the ankle. The red has gone noticeably purple and the swelling is still there, but maybe less so. Looks like a case of 'it only hurts when she moves'.

Gently lifting the leg by placing his palm under the curve of her calf, he tugs the chair closer. When he helps the heel back on the level, she lets out a hiss. He lets his hands fall but keeps looking at the ankle, slightly unseeing. "Yeah," he says after a moment, "sorry. But I'd really like to at least explain if you don't want to talk. I know, still a bad moment, sorry."

"Well, Lieutenant," she starts stronger while hiding her shaking fingers somewhere under the lid of her laptop so he won't guess, "I'm glad you remembered that. So maybe you could focus on the case at hand. And maybe you wouldn't mind starting to share some evidence, hm?"

She knows her actions are ugly, but right now she needs him to back off; rather be mad than dangerous. She was raw before, but the leg has thrown her so far into feeling vulnerable that she doesn't know how to manage. And to top it all, the muscles in the back of her neck are building a major headache making it so so hard to concentrate. If she can't control anything else, she still wants to try controlling him, his attitude.

The surprise is evident as his head snaps around, in the spare moment where he forgets to scowl at her.

"Sharon—"

"Now, Lieutenant. I will not be sidelined."

He grits his teeth, pushes up and away in jerky movements. She cringes and feels lucky there's not a wall near or her sprained ankle wouldn't be the injury the team should worry about. He's mad alright.

Andy doesn't bother rounding the desk, instead reaches over it and packs the evidence back in the box less than carefully. Most of it is indestructible enough. He fights with the papers and their bag for a while. It takes three tries to get all of them in and the zip closed. The gritting of his teeth remind him to book his next dentist's appointment. It's almost been a year. And maybe he should check the date for his next physical as well. It's in a couple of weeks, but Sharon hasn't reminded him yet. He probably would forget if she wasn't in the habit of writing post-its to remind him. The woman's almost as good for his health as she is bad: the heat rising in his body tells him he should calm down. But he can't, she's too close and she is being impossible! No, he needs to take a break, take a walk and find out a way to get her out of his system.

The box packed, he turns around, walks it over to her and shoves it in her hands barely looking at her and ignoring the way her laptop teeters on her thighs nearly falling on the floor.

"As you say, Captain," he spits out. He turns on his heel, walks out without a backward glance. "I have an interview to get ready for anyways."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** _Phew, here again! I've been sick as anything for months (chronic illnesses, such fun!) and now I'm slowly trying to catch up on all things life from work to school to hobbies to washing socks. Very tiring and time-consuming, but I'll try to post a chapter of this every now and again. The story is fully written (well, as much as any rushed through NaNoWriMo can be) so posting is just a matter of time. These next few chapters are really an unmitigated mess — yes, it's the middle point of NaNo — thus updates might pick up after I've resolved them! :) Currently I'm debating if I should cut Andy's chapter and one of Rusty's chapters as well as merging some chapters..._  
 _Thanks to all and & any who have read and send me comments & PMs during this hiatus! They've really perked me up and made me push this higher in my list of priorities. I'm going to go through the comments & PMs later and answer if there are any questions I've neglected this far, but please do ask again if you need an answer soonish.  
Hope you're all doing well and still interested in this little story of mine! :)_

* * *

 ** _Chapter 8_**

For the next hour he makes himself scarce. Sharon goes through the box paying a little closer attention than he did. The gloves she has on slip: in about fifteen minutes after Andy's back disappeared from view she realized he wasn't coming back soon, not until he cooled off first, so to fill her time and mind she turned to the box of evidence she had set on the floor beside her. On lifting the lid and giving the insides a cursory look there she realized there wasn't much to see. Some bits and pieces recovered from the office floor; not even enough to suggest a struggle. No, if she wanted to get the feel for the items, she needed to get them out of their bags and to do that she needed gloves. Gloves, which she kept in her desk drawer, which was at least 20 feet from where she sat. So, instead of limping across her office, she took the closest way out and hobbled to Andy's drawer. She had to move a couple of folders and a picture of Nicole and her family to find his gloves. Even before pulling them on they looked huge. She was tempted to try fitting both of her hands inside one. However big, they would have to do.

And they do. Handling the meager evidence they have requires no fine motor skills so it doesn't really matter what she's wearing. She would like to talk over everything they have with Andy, but he is not talking to her. She can make only one conclusion on her own: the scene was reasonably clean and the items they have here are things that you could have on the edge of a desk, in easy reach of accidentally knocking them on the floor. Quick, uncoordinated surprise attack. Everything else remains a mystery.

Sharon barely manages to pack everything back in the box when Mike rushes in the room.

"Captain," he starts as his eyes land on the too big gloves she places on a cardboard box, "we've got something."

"Please tell me we have the killer on tape?"

He smirks. "Well, almost." He turns to tack a couple of photos on the board. "As you might know, Captain, the dealership's cameras are all focused on the lot —"

"— and the office cameras were not on. Yes, I remember." She wets her lips and thinks, "Didn't the manager say Mr. Martin never switched them on when he was present?"

"Yes."

"I wonder why that is." She looks at the stacks of financials she went through with Andy.

He shrugs. "We got cameras across the street. The convenience store and the gas pumps both have CCTV. A little past one they show a car being parked on the back edge of the lot. Old, maybe nineties' green Honda." He hands her a photo. "We don't get a license."

"Of course. That would be too easy," she says deadpan and looks the photo. Too grainy.

"Also, we don't get a face of the person driving that car." He hands her a composite of someone stepping out of the car, looking somewhere off camera, then walking across the corner of the lot, in the direction of the dealership. "But we got an ID of a person who might help us with that." He pulls up three CCTV prints for her to study. One shows a huddled figure over a rickety cart of some sort. In the second the figure with a cart is standing and talking with the driver of the green Honda. The third is a clear face shot of an older man with a scraggy face, messy beard and a beanie. She looks up from the photo. "That's Jed 'Greenbottle' Lisowski. Homeless, petty thefts, uh, mainly shoplifting food, but otherwise a good citizen. It's his part of town."

"Why the name 'Greenbottle'?" Sharon asks as he studies the man's face.

"He collects them. Other vagrants have complained of him yelling at them for taking his green bottles." Tao takes the photos off her hands. "Patrol's looking for him. It might take a while, but he's been very helpful before."

She nods. "And what about Doctor Morales?"

"COD gunshot to the head. Front to back, no contact. His guess for time of death is around midnight at the earliest, livor's still setting, so..."

"So in theory our 1 a.m. Honda driver might be a suspect or a witness." She glances over at the photos. "So could our... Mister..."

"Lisowski, Ma'am," he fills in. She repeats the name. "Possible, but extremely unlikely," he says and she nods her consent.

They are interrupted by stomping from the hall. Provenza comes in, removes his jacket and slouches in his chair with a grunt.

"Lieutenant?" Sharon questions somewhat amused.

He looks up. "The wife didn't do it. Annoying as she is, she is much too self-centered to do it."

Mike and Sharon exchange looks. He then turns to the photos while Sharon resumes her chat with Provenza. "I'm assuming there's something further than 'she's too annoying for having done it'."

"Sure," Provenza agrees all too sweetly, "but traditionally here we accept the incident commander's reports." Sharon cocks a brow at him. "Fine." He digs out his notepad for show, "The wife cried. Then said 'well, at least the divorce got easier' and finally 'serves the philandering asshole right to die with the wife'. Her parents stepped in, corrected her behavior and proceeded to tell that Mr. Martin loved his business more than his family. Married to his job," he says pointedly pointedly glancing at Sharon, "which was a big complaint. After that, much 'oh my God's, crying and consoling."

"Doesn't sound like the unequivocal proof of innocence we are used to, Lieutenant," Sharon says.

"Well, if you'd let me continue," he turns a page, "I'd tell you that me and an officer Stephens went through the whole family's alibis finding witnesses. Neighborhood barbecue or some such thing. Bunch of Country Club types. Unless they are hiding a teleport machine, no way they could have made it here and back on time." He flips the notebook shut. "You'll forgive us if we didn't check the eight year old's whereabouts."

"Actually, where was the son?"

He sighs, dramatically. "At the party until eleven. Then crawled up in his own bed at the grandparents' house."

"And his mother stayed at the party?" Sharon questions.

"Odd, I could have sworn I started with," Provenza takes a dramatic break, "self-centered."

Sharon rolls her eyes while Tao snorts.

"Yes, thank you, Lieutenant." She rearranges her feet on the floor. "So the wife didn't do it. Anything else?"

Provenza grunts, shoots to his feet and grabs his jacket. "The business partner, that Ms. Layton is here."

"Where is Andy? I mean, Lieutenant Flynn?"

"Already with Ms. Layton. Interview one."

Tao remains rooted, watching Sharon shuffling her feet and sliding forward in her chair. As she switches grips on the handrests and frowns to herself, he winces.

"I can reroute the feed here for you," he offers.

She waves him off and firmly grabs the handrests. "I'll follow you."

She stands up, slowly. Both Lieutenants waver, silently preparing to offer their assistance. She gives them a pointed look and waits for them to move towards Electronics. As soon as their backs disappear, she bites her lip and takes a tentative step. Not too bad. Definitely twisted, but not bad.

Sharon slowly navigates across the room, holding on to every desk on her way. When she makes the corner she can hear high-pitched laughter nearby. Then a few deep rumbles that go straight through her chest. Well, she's glad Andy's mood is better. Really.

Her jaw cleches painfully. Her neck is in knots. She needs sleep. A glass of wine, a bath, a muscle relaxant and her bed.

Despite everything, she drags herself in Electronics where Mike immediately jumps up and offers her the front row seat. She slides in next to Buzz, gives him an encouraging smile. He looks worried, but inconspiciously slides a mug of steaming tea closer to her. She doesn't need to inhale to know it's her favourite mint tea that always helps her through the toughest days. Sharon's heart melts but before she has the time to thank Buzz he is already intently staring at the screens.

On the screens she sees a forty-something blonde in a rasperry peplum skirt lounging on one of the chairs. A matching blazer rests on the back of another chair. Her arms are bare, the frilly sleeveless blouse covered in tiny blue flowers. Somehow she oddly reminds Sharon of Brenda. Even if the heels are not kitten. But she does sit on the wrong side of the table: on Brenda's side, on her side.

Andy doesn't seem to mind. He smiles at the woman's thank you as he hands her a cup of, what Sharon presumes is, coffee. Relaxed, he pulls out the chair across from her and settles down. "Okay?" he asks and at the woman's hum nods towards the camera.

"Let's start then. Okay, so..." he gathers his thoughts, smiles a little and gestures with his hands, "Well, first of all, thank you for coming to talk with us."

"No problem," she smiles and leans closer, "the only plan was to talk with handsome men at the corner bar, but it looks like I can do that here just as well."

Sharon sees how at first he dismisses the comment and goes straight to his notes but then pauses, does the slightest double-take. He smiles cordially before looking at the notes again.

"So, Ms Layton —"

"It's Sherry."

"Okay, Sherry," he corrects amicably, "I gather you know the reason why you are here." She nods. "We're sorry for your loss."

She waves one perfectly manicured hand as she takes a sip out of her cup. "We weren't that close. Not anymore," she says. "Me and Anton, we said goodbyes when the papers were done and never got back to each other. Just one of those things," she chuckles, "an acquaintance you knew only briefly."

"Did you part on good terms?"

"Well enough." She turns the cup between her hands while looking at it with something akin to moroseness. The look is only temporary however, as she raises her eyes back on Andy the smile that seemed glued to her face returns. "We were never friends, just had business interests together. Interests I was in a hurry to get over with. We got on well enough and after I got out I saw no reason to look back."

"And how did those shared interests come to be?"

The woman giggles again a little too loudly and a bit too long for Sharon's tastes.

"Officer," Ms. Layton starts with a voice dripping suggestion, "are you asking what a nice girl like me ever did in a place like that?"

"Ahm, it's 'Lieutenant'," Andy supplies habitually, somewhat puzzled by the woman smiling and giggling at him during a murder investigation.

She doesn't just smile and giggle at him but brushes his arm with the tips of her fingers as she answers, "So, not an Officer and a gentleman? Such a shame." When Andy stares at her baffled, she leans in closer across the desk and as if by accident brushes his shin with her toes. "Here I was thinking you might be. It's a rare time when a girl meets a man who brings her tea." She takes another sip, inhales the scent with a reverence close to 'When Harry Met Sally'. "Especially mint, the expensive kind."

"What can I say," Andy says shrugging, "I have a great taste."

"I bet you do. Not many a man would find something like this."

Sharon is dismayed at how he doesn't explain or in fact say anything at all. He just smiles at that woman while letting her drink the expensive mint tea Sharon only finds in one small specialist shop an hour outside the city! It's her special weakness and nothing else will do.

She misses whatever happens in that room until that high-pitched giggle makes her head throb worse. She pushes the tea aside and tries to re-focus.

"Girls can like cars," Sharon hears the woman purr. It raises her hackles. "And I like sports too. I bet you like baseball." When he doesn't answer, she adds, "You look like you might have even played some. Am I right?"

"So, the business was yours at first —"

"What's the matter, can't you answer one question? Just one, teeny tiny question?" She practically crawls over the table. "C'mon. This is not an interrogation, is this?"

"No, no, of course not. We're just chatting," he says as charmingly as possible, throwing in the famous Flynn smile for good measure.

The woman drops her tone back to a purr, "Then did you? I bet you did. You have the arms for it." Her eyes rake up and down his muscular arms.

Andy tilts his head and considers. Here is a woman, by no means unattractive, who is hitting on him harder than a convict on a chain gang hits a stone. She is confident in her charms and he has no doubt, were she in a bar, that she could chat up any man she likes. He is not vain enough to think that he is something special to her, but were she indifferent to him she wouldn't spend the time fishing for his responses rather than trying to finish up as quickly as possible to go chase someone else. Yet it strokes his ego to see this woman coming on to him despite the surroundings. Despite the rules. To be a little naughty in semi-public. To hell with propriety and appearances.

His grin goes wolfish. Yes, to hell with rules and appearances and propriety and all the damned things with which he's gotten burned lately. He knows all the arguments and is tired of hearing them again and again. To hell with restrictions and reservations! Female confidence and freedom have been in scant supply and even the suggestion of them is enough to make him heady. And no, she is not unattractive. He leans back, relaxes and adopts a sloppy grin.

"Let me close the door so we can chat in peace," he says with that lopsided smirk he carries everywhere. He raises, ambles across the room, smooths his tie on the way. He is off the screen when he says, "That's better."

"By much," she giggles.

The hair at the back of Sharon's neck rises and she can feel the thump of her heart going up to her head and down to the tips of her fingers. Something changed just now. She throws furtive glances at the men around her. Buzz is totally focused on his equipment. Provenza leans forward, his expression dull. Almost like he's thinking of his groceries with no interest on what they are watching. Mike leans back, his look impassive as always. Clearly none of them can feel the change. Sharon chides herself for being too sensitive.

"Yeah," Andy chuckles returning to his seat, "I played." He pulls the chair back with a little twist of his wrist, then takes a seat, scoots the chair a lot closer to the table and then, with that stupid smouldering grin, leans forward. "Now I love to watch," he says and unashamedly traces the woman's bare arm with his eyes. The glance makes her perk up like a double shot espresso in the morning. In that one action Sharon knows she's right, that something changed and that blonde there saw it too.

"Well, I like both," Sherry says softly. "Watching... and being watched."

Andy raises one brow. "You any good with bat and balls?"

There is no giggle, in fact the woman's gone deadly serious.

"We could get a cage and find out." Her hand lands on Andy's, her fingers flex to stroke his skin. "I bet you could tell."

He smiles at her. Leans even closer. His free hand curls in a loose fist, then he nudges the womans arm with those curled fingers and slips the hand open around the slender limb. His thumb goes to draw half circles on the pulse point inside her elbow.

Sharon hasn't thought about it before but everything in her body screamed for that gesture belonging to her. She isn't jealous, but in certain circumstances she is possessive, that she can admit. And, in some twisted way she thinks she has a right to this tiny recurring gesture of his. Even more so after last night and him... She quickly shakes those thoughts out of her head, crosses her arms and rather scowls at the screen showing his hand on her arm.

Just as she does that, Andy throws a dirty look at the camera, turns his grin wolfish and answers the lady.

"Let's just say... I don't waste my time dating prudes."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** _Phew, a month! Didn't think it'd take this long but oh well. Thank you so much for your comments & messages on the last chapter! I'm thinking that was the best response to anything I've written here (I'm choosing to ignore the removed favs & follows). Sorry for not delivering better stuff - this middle bit just refuses to work every. single. time. GAH! (Here's hoping I didn't make some really stupid deletions: this was like 4 chapters in my raw file. Cheers.)_

* * *

 **Chapter** **9**

She has seen him flirt before, both on tape and in person, but this feels different. It takes a while for her to land on the difference, but when he, what he thinks, discreetly looks at the camera after a touch and an innuendo the difference that has nagged just at the threshold of consciousness explodes like a brick through a window glass.

The damn man's not flirting with the woman in that room, he is just baiting the one watching him. Sharon glances at her companions who are as stone faced as ever. How are they not seeing this? How do they not see that Andy Flynn, the biggest flirt in the county, is not flirting with the attractive blonde as much as he is baiting his boss, his sometimes-maybe-not-quite... She can't finish that thought. His what? What is she to him, exactly?

While Sharon is hung up on that question, somehow the couple graduates from blushingly blatant flirting to substance - probably no little thanks to him remarking that the sooner they get this out of the way, the sooner he can go home and call her. It garners some titters more suited to a teenage girl as well as some gestures Sharon would rather forget she ever saw.

"So, Sherry, tell me how you got involved in the car business," Andy rounds back to the start.

She sighs. "Oh, okay. Well, the usual story, I'm afraid." She glances at the tea, then throws her hair back. "Daddy's girl," she smiles a little wanly. "He loved cars and I trailed him like a puppy. Since I was six, I was in the garage with him. Then came the rugged teenage boy I went head over heels and my father loved until he found out. But the boy was older than me and found about girls who wanted to do other stuff. Broke my heart," she smiled. "But I went back to cars and then came college and my father died when I was a senior. I came home, spent a little time at the garage, went back and finished school. Couldn't land a job, and couldn't think of anything to do but work with cars. Then, little by little, I got to the point where I got to have my own dealerships."

"And this one landed into Mr. Martin's hands how?"

"Lieutenant, have you seen the part of the town?" she simpers. "I upgraded, put out feelers if there was someone interested in buying me out. He came forward, there was a transitional period and I never looked back."

"So you never intended to stay in business with him?"

"No! God, no." A look flashes on her face but she doesn't continue. Andy picks up on this and just keeps looking at her, waiting. After a moment she says apologetically, "Mr. Martin... He was an asshole. I'm sorry, but he wasn't a very nice person."

Andy leans back and grins. "Hey, some people are. Nothing wrong with that."

She smirks, "Well, he wasn't. And I don't think he was very good at what he did. At least it felt like that while we were both still involved."

"So it wouldn't surprise to know he was in debt? Or that his businesses were?"

"They were? No, I'm not at all surprised."

They chat about Mr. Martin's business sense and skills for some minutes more, but Ms. Layton has barely anything useful to say. Other than that the man wasn't very business minded, not in any respect. Apparently his approach to making his business successful was to decide something, stick to it, and wait for the rest of the world to align to support his choice. When it didn't, he would get bad-tempered and blame anyone he came in contact with.

"What about his personal relationships?" Andy asks when he feels like they have heard enough about the victim's bad practices. "Was there... anything besides the marriage?"

"The wife's not a peach, let me tell you that," Sherry answers straight-away. "I don't know why on earth they ever married. I mean, I only saw the woman twice, but neither of the times was too pleasant. And you should have heard the language Anton used about his wife!" she exclaims still a little scandalized.

"I take it there wasn't enough respect in that relationship?" At her emphatic nods he asks, "You don't happen to know why the first marriage didn't last?"

She smirks. "Guess." When Andy just tilts his head in askance she reveals, "Wife number two. Yes, that's right. He blew up his first marriage for a woman he clearly didn't care for. But I came to understand that she wasn't the first, let's say, transgression, but just the first one he got caught with." She laughs. "The first one took all she could and left him. She was the better off of them and after her poor Anton tried to find a scheme that would make him rich on his own."

"And how did his family like the businesses he was involved in?"

"Oh, wife number two hated any and all. She didn't even want to set her foot in the dealership, but he made her. She needed something, I'm guessing money, and he wouldn't get out to give it to her. The other time she came in begging him to buy her a nail salon, but he declined and she left screaming and crying. I never saw wife number one, he didn't really talk about her." She pauses to take a sip of her tea, now cold but still fragrant and wonderful. "The boy was a grease monkey in the making. He loved the place, loved the cars. Begged his father to give him a place like that and if not, at least a shiny beefed up bad ass car. I don't know about the rest."

"The son came around? Even without his mother?"

"Yeah, he hung about the place like a stray cat in front of a butcher's. He loved it. His father didn't seem to mind that, he often dropped the kid back to school and such."

"So despite Mr. Martin being a less than stellar people person, he did care about his son?"

"Yes," she smiles at his choice of words. "That's it. I don't think he liked another person in the world."

Andy returns the smile. He looks at his notes to let the team in Electronics know he doesn't have any more questions unless they can think of something. When there is no communications, he thanks Ms. Layton and offers to escort her back to the elevators.

She raises, puts on her jacket. "Oh, you can escort me anywhere you like," she winks.

Andy grins and ushers her out.

The team stays quiet, waiting for a cue from their Captain. However, Sharon stares at the monitor, dull. The good news? Her head now throbs in sync with her ankle which she hasn't been able to keep elevated. Other than that, she doesn't know. Oh, the interview was fine enough. The flirting part... She wants to be angry, but fears the others will think her petty and wounded. Surely they must know it was all for her benefit? Surely they saw right through his childish and crude attempts?

"Flynn's good at that," Mike finally hazards to say.

"Yes." Sharon can't say more.

Provenza slaps the desk with his open palm. "Well now at least we know they are all petty idiots. And the guy was an asshole."

"Lieu—"

Sharon's comment is cut short by the door flinging open. Andy Flynn saunters in with attitude and open arms. "Still got it!" he proclaims brandishing a card with the blonde's number.

Sharon smoothly swivels her chair around, smiles sweetly and, instead of agreeing aloud with Provenza about the guy being an asshole, with a voice dripping sugar says, "Yes, very, very good work, Lieutenant." It's her volley and the rest of them are welcome to take it in any way they like. She is tired of guessing whether or not they noticed or if they are just being at a loss as to what to say to her about it. She pushes herself on her feet and coolly walks past Andy's still open arms. With a careless wave, she flings over her shoulder, "I'm going to line up our next steps while you gentlemen wrap this up here."

The door barely closes behind her when Andy's expectant grin dies of neglect. "Come on, congratulate me," he tries towards his friends.

Buzz keeps staring at the monitors. Mike fiddles with some cord. Provenza huffs but doesn't look at him.

"What's the matter with everyone today," Andy huffs as his arms drop to his sides.

That makes Provenza turn and wag his finger. "You! You're the matter as usual!"

"Me! Me!" Andy looks at the others who pretend to be engrossed in something technical. "What have I done!"

"Well you've must have done something! It's like a high school he-said-she-said in here!"

"And why does that have to be my fault? Has no one considered that she," he emphasizes the word by gesturing behind himself, "that she is the problem?"

They are all silent for some seconds. Then quietly Buzz says, "Because, Lieutenant, she is sad."

"And you're only making it worse," Provenza adds. When Andy tries to counter, he interrupts, "Ah, ah! If you want to chat up blondes you can do that, but you don't do it in front of the Captain if you want to be a child about it! You don't make it a game where she gets no turns."

Andy shrugs. "She was welcome to take me out of there anytime she wanted. Clearly she didn't have the problem you're having."

"Or she sees straight through your crap," Mike, who this far has been quiet and not looking in his direction, suddenly says and turns around.

Andy rolls his eyes. "Oh my god." He scratches his head for a minute, then straightens. "Okay. Fine. I tried to get a reaction out of her. Obviously it didn't work out."

"Not unless you wanted to make her cry," Buzz's quiet voice says.

"Did she?"

"No," Provenza says killing whatever little hope had awaken in Andy, "but you're not far. And if you don't want that, I suggest you do something about it. Now. And let us work!"

He watches them for a minute but they are not willing to pay him any attention. Buzz busies himself with rewinding the recording, and Andy is pretty sure he would be capable of doing it without the help from Mike. And Provenza, totally unlike himself, takes notes!

"Fine," he finally repeats before throwing the balled up phone number in the trash and skulking out of the room. All of them are against him today! The damn woman's not happy with shunning him herself, oh no, she's not content until she's turned everyone else against him as well! What did he ever do to her that was so reprehensible? It isn't like it was HE who did things they should regret!

His toxic mood is quickly checked as he comes into view of said woman's back. Not bothering to pause to admire her wonderful legs or quite tempting backside, as is his usual custom, his attention jumps straight to the way her shoulders are almost to her ears, how her arms are rigidly held at her sides as if she's Disney's Cinderella admiring her new dress and how her stride is reduced to barely there shuffle.

"Sharon, wait up!"

She closes her eyes and bites her lip. Even if she didn't want to wait, what is there to do? Jump on her belly like a penguin and hope city property was as poorly built as they claimed?

"I'm a bit busy right now, Lieutenant," she says tamping down her most sarcastic responses. She gets in only two more shuffling steps, since she used up all her energy and composure to get out of Electronics, before her wrist is clamped in a warm palm.

"Dammit, Sharon," he says as he turns her around.

"I'd prefer 'Dammit, Captain,' if it's all the same to you."

Her cold response triggers a torrent of passion in his look of which she knows to be vary. Whatever emotional or mental wince her eyes belie transforms his passionate glare into something even more dangerous: a suffocatingly warm look that penetrates through all her icy layers.

She tries to untangle her hand from his, but when the slight attempt only makes his grip harder she lets it go.

"If you'll excuse me, I was going to call Rusty."

"Don't be stupid, Sharon, I'll drop you off." Even amidst all the hurt and fatigue in her eyes he sees her balk at the idea. Or maybe it's his warm tone that makes her balk. He knows, he's being stupid and all over the place with his emotions and attitude, but he can't help it. One look at her silent suffering melts all his acid and steel and all he wants is to wrap her tiny frame in his arms and carry her to safety. What a masculine pride, what a lizard brain he has! If he would bother to think about himself right now, he would be disgusted or at the least amused. But no, he's not thinking of himself. "If nothing else, the kid doesn't need to be driving across town for the third time today."

She wants to spit out something short and spiteful but she can't. Not only is she a little breathless, but there are few things she would less rather do than confine herself in a tiny, fast moving tin can with him. Heck, she's even more interested in calling Jack to pick her up. And that is saying a lot: since her 'suggestion' to divorce he's been on the phone constantly with the most inane pretexts. Like calling her to tell an antique vase her aunt once had and she liked is on sale in a shop he knows would change her mind and beg him back. Like calling her how he went to take a selfie in front of Ricky's firm would make her fall back in love with him. It's just her luck that calling Rusty is one of those things she wants to avoid even more.

"Okay. Sure. Fine," she mumbles, conscious to avoid any sign of gratitude. He must not really expect one.

"What's wrong?" he asks low and searches her eyes. His scrunched brows look aggressive but his tone is soft and she can't answer for the struggle to understand his attitude and actions through the stormy sea of emotions and thoughts in her own head. "You wanna take that pain killer now?"

"Ma'am?" They snap around, a little apart, at the sound of some uniformed support. "Patrol got your man..." he looks down at the post-it, "Uh, Mr. Lisowski. They are walking him up as we speak, Interview 2 okay?"

Sharon congratulates herself and her reflexes as soon as she realizes she is pressing her arm against her back. Mostly because she can still feel Andy's hand around her wrist, against the small of her back. She slightly bends at the waist and lets out a deep breath her lungs are tired of holding in.

"Fine, fine. Thank you." She smiles at the uniform's nod and waits for him to turn back and head out of the room. Only then does she turn around. "Well Lieutenant, it seems like I too have an interview to get to."

"You can't," he says shortly. "You're—"

"— not allowed," she sighs deeply, lowering her head. "Damn rules," she mutters and he is tempted to laugh. He doesn't, of course, just smiles a little wider at her. Then tugs her hand closer to him in order to get her to look up.

"Seriously Sharon, you're not alright. Let me, or at least one of us, help you in some way if we can."

His soft smiling look brings all of her walls down for a split second. At the same time she wants to scream at him but also cry. And none of that dignified one tear down the cheek sadness but ugly sobbing and full blown waterworks, maybe with fists pounding his chest. Either of those or just dragging him into some corner to kiss him, to whisper sweet apologies. She hasn't felt this conflicted about anything since she was last pregnant.

Pregnancy! Now there's a thought.

She can't help the silly smile spreading on her face while her free hand unconsciously finds a place on her lower stomach like it so often does when you think of having a baby. At least it does when you forget all those ugly, icky, uncomfortable bits about the process. And let's be frank: that's most of the time after you get a good distance away from the actual event. Otherwise you would never ever again let any man closer than a spitting distance of yourself.

"What's that damn smirk for?" His sniping tone gets her instantly out of her thoughts and her hand off herself. Her smile morphs into impassiveness. When she just quirks a brow he drops her wrist and challenges, "What the hell's wrong with you today?"

"Nothing." She keeps quiet for some seconds, then adds so low it might be meant as a private musing, "And if there is, it's all because of you."

"Me?!" he shouts and turns around in frustration, throwing his hands up for good measure. "I give up! I give up, seriously!" She watches him to walk around in circles as he runs his fingers through his hair. "There's just no pleasing you."

Oh, on the contrary, Sharon muses. And wasn't that the root of their problem.


	10. Chapter 10

Sharon sits in Mike Tao's chair and wraps a cord around her fingers. She fumes. She feels slighted and patronized and completely useless. Especially that last one since both of Mike's screens are still dark and empty.

Well, it is what it is, as they are waiting for Mr. Greenbottle to finish his dinner. This day is one of the rare times Sharon would rather skip their usual courtesies towards informants, not least because every time her gaze drifts from the empty screens it meets the scowl from one Andy Flynn. She can't even avoid that since all her notes are still precariously perched on the corner of Andy's desk, topped by her phone, which only serves to sully her mood further. Not that the scowl makes her feel any sunnier.

Thanks to Provenza, Mike set up the interview's feed for her in the Murder Room. Apparently her suffering distracted the workforce from paying attention to the investigation. Why she was also saddled with Flynn, she doesn't know. If it were up to her — as it technically should be — Flynn would be the one doing the interview and nowhere near her person. But either her second in command is playing Cupid or really, really mad at them both and wishing one of them killed the other and soon.

Which really wasn't out of the question if the past twenty minutes was anything to go by.

No, all the past twenty minutes managed to do was to turn Sharon's hurt and mixed feelings into a simmering rage. Her temper has always been quite Irish (a fact that made her and Jack's marriage such fun — both actual and figurative), but she has also cultivated certain strategies to manage that. As she matured, a walk and a think in a quiet room became her best strategies to diffuse the flashes of temper. Today, with her shadow, she has been denied all space of her own and the other, more literal headache that just won't go away either is eroding away all her other coping mechanisms. She is definitely at the point where she needs that muscle relaxant, a glass of wine, a dark room and her own bed. Or she is going to make Provenza very happy indeed.

Thus she can barely glance at the man she only last night found so damn captivating that her overflowing appreciation made her make a fool of herself. In front of him, to add insult to injury. Slowly it had gotten increasingly more difficult to keep her head out of the clouds around Andy: he made her so comfortable, happy and relaxed.

But also irritated as hell. Especially when he got this overbearing and refused to let her have her space.

He just perches on a chair opposite. His forearms rest on the edge of the desk, his hands clasped together and a penetrating scowl never leaving her face. Maybe she imagines it, but it sounds like he breathes as if he ran a marathon while she wasn't looking.

Andy's angry and frustrated and getting more so as Sharon refuses to talk. She sits like a statue, her arms crossed, her legs too, he notes quite instinctively. Not a hint of emotion crosses her face. Her eyes are usually so expressive and easy to read but today they are dull and listless. On top of that, she continuously avoids his gaze. Not that it discourages his stare.

"Could you stop staring at me," she snaps after a few minutes of oppressive silence.

"Now I can't even look at you!"

"Not if it is like that."

He huffs. "How am I supposed to do it then, huh, Sharon? Answer me that. I can't look at you like this, I can't look at you like—"

"Why not do it not at all if it's so difficult for you," she hisses aggressively, leaning forward. "Would save us both a lot of trouble!"

"Trouble! You, Sharon, you are nothing but trouble!"

"Then you should —" she stops abruptly as she spies movement out of the corner of her eye. She refolds her hands against her chest and looks away. This was exactly what she wanted to avoid, but they bait each other and the tension between them is untenable.

"Uh, we're ready to start?" Buzz ventures to inform them.

Andy waves a hand to him and Buzz takes the signal gratefully, slinking off before Andy is even on his feet. He makes to follow Buzz, but stops at Sharon's side. Too close, if being honest.

"We're not finished," he growls over her before continuing towards Electronics.

Sharon sighs. No, of course they are not finished. They've barely started. She rubs her temple. It doesn't ease the headache but at least it gives her something to do. If she was a little less stubborn, she would take Andy's suggestion and go home, even if the prospect of getting into a confined space with Andy Flynn is a disturbing prospect.

Right now Sharon turns to stare at the dark screen in front of her. A few flickering white symbols too quick to read flood her with inexplainable relief. It takes a few tense moments more for the interview room to appear. A man just like she imagined based on the poor CCTV captures sits across from Mike Tao, holding a large cup of coffee. A paper bag, possibly holding a sandwich or a pastry of some sort, rests beside his left hand. The man and his belongings are all dirty shades of earth colors, greens and browns. On his head is a knit green cap of some description. His body language retreating, inconspicuous and unassuming, Mr. Lisowski is exactly what Sharon expected.

Mike is giving him space, going through his notes and letting the man drink his coffee. After a couple of sips the man murmurs some words that must mean a go ahead as Mike straightens in his chair, introduces both of them for the recording and asks some preliminary questions of Mr. Lisowski's habits. Then he gradually moves to describing the youth they are interested in. Mr. Lisowski needs little prompting.

"The boy hung around the place. Interested in cars, I think. Gave me some bottles some times, cleaned his car or something. He had one of those green things. Green Asian things. Cheap and small and you know, what kids drive. Old."

"What about the night in question?" Mike spreads the photographs on the table for Mr. Lisowski to see. "Can you remember?"

"Last night?" The man chuckles at Mike's nod. "Of course I remember last night!" He takes a drag of his coffee. "Let me think... It was... Maybe around one. I already got something from a restaurant I usually get something around midnight and stop there to eat. They've got a clean back step."

He veers off on a tangent about his usual route and routines. After a while Mike directs him back to the boy.

"He sometimes came in late, walked through the lot with the owner. Sometimes came alone, during the day. Didn't see his car neither. But he always looked at the cars in the shop." Sharon straightens in her chair. "Sometimes he would get in one with the owner." She leans forward. "The bigger and blacker the better," Greenbottle adds.

"To see closer, a test drive you mean?" Mike clarifies.

"Nah, like a used car. Probably his. The guy would return later, alone."

Sharon tries jumping up to hurry towards Electronics to share her insight, but as soon as her weight lands on her feet she realizes how bad an idea that is. The ankle is sore. Sore as anything, sturdy as cooked spaghetti. She grits her teeth and contemplates walking but it doesn't sound appealing in the least. She knows she will have to walk again at some point, but as things stand, that point is not now. No, she considers alternative courses of action.

And feels stupid when, not ten seconds later, she realizes that she has a phone right in front of her. Rolling her eyes Sharon picks up the receiver and starts dialing the extension for Electronics. She doesn't get far as steps entering the room distract her.

It is Andy. Of course it is. She mentally rolls her eyes, but knows this is too important for whatever petulant displays she wants to make.

"The victim might have an older son!" she declares hanging up the phone. Andy stops dead in his tracks, looks at her for a beat or two, then takes the last three steps to stand on the other side of Provenza's desk.

"Yeah," he says crossing his arms, "we already gathered that. Provenza's chasing that up."

"Oh."

"We're not fully incompetent, you know." He stares at her, tilts his head., the conversation on the screen filling the lull in this one. "Anything else the Captain wants us to ask?"

"No. No, this is fine." She barely breathes as she keeps staring at Andy. "Thank Mike."

He narrows his eyes before disappearing whence he came and Sharon returns to watching the rest of the interview. There's no other big reveals, just a mention that Mr. Lisowski was already moving on when the young man left, and when the displays finally go dark again Sharon has managed only three lines of notes. She stares at those until Andy and Provenza file back into the room.

"Well, the wife," Provenza says, "didn't know anything about another son. Said, and I quote, 'the asshole barely knew he had the one'. Now, Sherry," he stretches the name meaningfully, "didn't know about the younger son, Davide. According to her, the kid we're looking for is about sixteen, maybe eighteen, average height and dark."

"Matches the CCTV photos then."

"Like at least a million other kids in L.A. Even if pressed Sherry couldn't be more specific." He pauses to watch Andy scowling at Sharon again. "But I tell you, Flynn," he adopts a teasing tone, "she's no longer in love with you. Thinks you should have realized an eight year old didn't fit what she said."

Such a casual statement shouldn't affect her at all, but Sharon feels an uncomfortable twinge inside. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Andy roll his. Maybe the line affected him as well as there comes no mention that one of the other bright minds could have caught that too.

"What about the ex-wife? Mrs... Wilson?" Sharon asks.

"Wilson. Louann Wilson," Provenza affirms. "I called her, but her answering machine picked up. We could wait for her to call back for an hour or two and get some late lunch."

"Sounds good," Sharon nods less than enthusiastic.

Provenza pulls Andy aside. He stumbles a bit, still focused on Sharon, but turns to face his partner.

Lowering his voice, Provenza asks, "Why is she still here? Didn't you even try to make her leave?"

"Well there's been great evidence of that working this far so I thought to —"

"I didn't ask you to think if it worked or not," he interrupts, "I told you to try." He shakes his head to stop Andy from answering back. "Hey, Captain! Go home!" he shouts around Flynn.

Andy is sure he hears her sigh. "Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant, but I'm not Lassie."

"No, even Lassie runs home for help," Provenza mutters loudly enough for her to hear. Andy rolls his eyes again.

"Need I remind you, Lieutenant," Sharon says, her tone full of dangerous honey, "that calling your superior officer a bitch is not only insubordinate but also, in your case, old."

Andy starts to laugh. He can't help it. Sharon can be so funny, especially when her biting remarks are not directed at him.

"Wait." Provenza scowls between Sharon's bent head and his laughing idiot partner. "Lassie was a she?"

"I'm afraid so, Lieutenant."

Andy's laughter is halted by Provenza's dirty glance and more meaningful looks that are part of their usual silent communication. He responds with a few meaningful looks of his own and a couple of shrugs. Behind his back, he hears Sharon rolling the chair from under the desk, followed by few muted whines and shuffling steps. He lets out a deep exhale.

"Flynn," Provenza says louder, "get her to eat, if you can't get her to leave."

Andy raises a hand and waves him out. He turns around and watches Sharon be stupid. She grips the corners of desks, drags her hurt leg forward and steps gingerly across the room. He closes his eyes and slowly counts to ten while Sharon treks the office.

When his eyes open, she is already by his desk, making busy with something or other, something she probably has already read at least once before. That irks him even more. She's wasting all of their time and spending the last remains of his already shredded patience. Sharon's great, mostly, but some little sides of her make him absolutely insane. Not all of them in a great way.

Her damn Captain's mask is one of those sides. One of the rare sides that have the power to make him insane in both ways, but today only in the bad.

"Sit down and I'll fetch you something," Andy barks.

"I'm perfectly capable —"

"Of course you are. You don't need anything or anyone, message received."

She turns to look at him, takes a beat. "I've learned to take care of myself and that's a good thing as you can only rely on yourself."

"Don't give me that bullshit." He shakes his head. "Don't trust nobody, you're all alone in the world in the end and o woe is me, the martyr."

She inhales deeply. Then says, surprisingly calm, "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to get my dinner."

Sharon starts moving towards the break room. It takes Andy a moment to realize and then rush after her. Just as his arm goes to slide around her waist, Sharon raises her hands and shifts her weight on her far leg.

"I will drag myself there, by my nails, if I have to to get away from this," she snarls.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous!" Sharon twirls around on her good leg. "If you're pissed as hell, so am I, Andy." He recoils as if surprised. She laughs, hollow and mean. "What, I am not allowed? I'm supposed to be demure and contrite and apologetic?" She pauses to see if he has anything to say, but Andy has fought with women enough to know when to never, ever, open his mouth. "Well I'm not. I'm pissed as hell. Pissed as hell you can't be straight with me, pissed as hell you don't respect me and pissed as hell I can't even walk away from you with this damn leg!"

"Sharon, I—"

"Stop! Can you not stop?" Her right hand shoots up to shade her face. "I just want to get through today, okay?" Her voice is softer, and even softer after a few deep breaths. "I get that we need to talk, even to fight. But not here, not now. Understood?"

Andy nods, mutely, and tries to herd her forward. Sharon shakes her head. "Go get yourself something to eat. I'll manage here."

"But Sharon..." He wants to make her move, to look back at him, to turn, to anything. She doesn't, she is still and he has the urge to fidget. That is one more thing that infuriates him; that alpha calmness in her, but right now he discounts that feeling completely. To have her blow up is dangerous, and he knows he has pushed her in the wrong direction.

"Look," he tries with calm reason in his voice, "could I have handled yesterday better? Sure. Was I expecting something else from you? Maybe. Did I want to hurt you? Absolutely not." He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. "But you know me. Not talking to me is not going to make things better." His gaze drops, his feet shuffle. "I don't understand where things went wrong."

That one sentence fills Sharon with burning disbelief and hurt that lingers in the pit of her chest. "You don't understand?" she repeats hollowly. "Okay." The hand shading her eyes slip to hide her mouth. Rapidly she blinks her eyes, then drags a deep breath through her nose. "Go get something to eat," she restates, "I'll manage."

Sensing but not fully understanding the sudden emptiness between them Andy turns away, leaving her between the glass walls framing the narrow corridor. He walks to his desk and starts to gather the things he will need for lunch, throwing timid glances at her back. He almost picks up her phone and thinks about walking it to her, in the end leaving it where it lies.

"Andy?" Her voice is soft and barely there when she speaks into the empty corridor. He hesitates between going to her and moving away, almost deciding she isn't going to say anything more. She does, however. Just as quietly, as still as she was before, she says, "I know what I did was wrong, but I don't want to apologize."

At least now she knows.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The twenty minutes Sharon spends with the three day old teriyaki stir fry Rusty thought to be good for her late second lunch restore some self-restraint and perspective. She knows she is behaving appallingly and she needs to pull herself together. She's missing her own home, her own bed and a moment of solitude. However, standing between her and home is the matter of the ride with Andy which discourages her from calling it a day right now. She has still not figured out how to deal with him. The day has been trying on so many levels but to think that most of it is born of her off-duty actions leaves her a little breathless. Albeit embarrassing, it was just a simple kiss.

Liar.

And she's not desperate enough to be subjected to Rusty quite yet. During the recent months he has become increasingly protective of her and that both gives her hope and terrifies her. With her own kids she always had a sense of space and distance, a strictly parent-child relationship, but Rusty with his overkeen sense of independence and neediness seems to seep into all sides of her life. He knows more than her own children did at that age. He clings more than her own children did then. He expects more than her kids did. Maybe he will be hers too, but maybe... Maybe he will balk, think that she is forcing his hand, trying to tie him down.

And on that they are so alike. Burned too many times already. That is perhaps why they get each other. Why they ultimately rely on each other. He knows she will fight for him (because she has) and she knows she has won his affection (for the lack of a better word). The thing is, he will protect her and in the process smother her.

Sharon rolls her eyes. For the number of times her kids and her friends have complained about her hovering when they are sick or hurt... Life has a beautiful way of paying you back.

No, she must grin and bear here in the off chance their case actually manages to get somewhere. Not to mention that she still has too many end-of-the-month reports to sort through. Even the thought makes her sigh and rub her temples. Some days she wonders if someone would even notice if she just made it all up. But she won't try that; there's a reason for it all that should be taken seriously.

So, when the twenty minutes and the stir fry are gone, Sharon shuffles back towards the Murder Room. It's still quiet as she pauses in front of her office door. For a moment she hesitates but the throbbing of her ankle spurs her to a decision. She swings by Andy's desk, looks at the papers, pens, keys and other miscellaneous items haphazardly scattered over the blotter. The man could be a mess. She has noticed the same spending time at his house. Mostly he is clean and tidy, but with certain things and certain places he is an absolute mess. His living room table with its piles of magazines, books, coffee cups and writing utensils being the prime example. The most gruesome example which Sharon tries to inconspicuously clear every time she visits, under the pretense of wanting to read something from that extensive on hand library or accidentally taking one of his empty mugs back to the kitchen alongside hers.

This time she resists the impulse to tidy up. Retaking her familiar seat she turns to her laptop. Soon she is immersed in one of the spreadsheets she needs to fill and only manages to open the next one before she hears footsteps. As she picks up her head she sees Julio passing a folder on the desk in front of her. He smiles at her, she returns the gesture.

"That's the canvas results."

Sharon glances at the folder. "Anything interesting?"

"Nothing useful."

She nods. It would have been an amazing stroke of luck and this case isn't going that way at all. "Where's Amy?" she asks.

"Visiting the ex-wife with Provenza."

Sharon nods again. Evidently their paths crossed during lunch. She doesn't ask about Andy and she doesn't ask about Mike but lets Julio to sit down at his desk and carry on with his work in silence.

Ten, fifteen minutes and another spreadsheet later Mike makes the same trip across the room and hands Sharon a folder. She opens the cover to see reports and prints of the crime scene. A few photos, two general shots and then the rest of details.

"Preliminaries on the fingerprints," Mike sums the findings while she's still flipping through the information. "Mainly exclusions, a couple of provisional matches belonging to the victim, the cleaner and the manager. Not surprising since those are the three people who had business inside the private office."

"Unknowns?"

"Some, but not too many. A lot of partials and those will take time."

Sharon's up to the last page when another set of footsteps approaches. Her shoulders tense slightly at the familiar cadence. Mike lets out an uncomfortable 'uh' and when getting no acknowledgement, slinks off towards his desk. Not a moment too soon as Andy's shoes enter Sharon's field of vision. Sharon doesn't look up but notices how his steps slow as he rounds her like a cat would a scorpion.

She lets him take a seat while she casually surveys the room. The other two occupants seem to be concentrating on their work so Sharon goes to pretend she found something interesting in the last photo.

"I'm calm," she whispers, then shakes her head as if chastising herself. "That was so unprofessional."

There's a pause, probably while Andy checks the room as well. Then, lowly, "You're entitled some times." Another pause, some rustling before he adds, "But that doesn't —"

"Of course not," she says quickly followed by a deep sigh. "We'll talk, Andy. We'll have to. I'm just.." she trails off for a shrug, "a little raw."

Their private conversation gets a mercifully natural end when Mike's phone rings. They all turn to look at him while he talks. Expectant, Sharon drops the folder on the desk before turning in her chair to face Mike.

"No matches yet, Ma'am," he summarizes after the call ends. "They've ran out of clear prints and our samples don't help so they're bumping us for a more urgent case."

"Figures." Andy rolls his eyes and folds his arms. "This whole thing is a fool's errand."

"No, no, Lieutenant," Sharon stays him with reaching one upturned hand behind her. "This is a good thing."

"It is?" Andy asks, his voice a little dubious as he reaches for the folder Sharon discarded and starts to flip through its contents.

"Yes! Of course it is." Her voice rises in excitement and as she turns her head and bites her lip, Andy admires the gleam taking over her eyes. "We have a known associate of illegal businesses shot execution style. Yet we have no known fingerprints in the office, bar for those we took for exclusionary purposes." At Andy's dubious look she adds, "When was the last time we have a known enforcer shoot a 'client' inside their business, effectively hiding the body, with no fingerprints of anyone we know, anywhere?"

"Could have worn gloves."

"Yes, could have. But —" Sharon wiggles her fingers to get the folder back, then quickly flips through pages and shows Andy, "— but look at this."

Andy studies the photo that shows just the knob of the door that's been gone over with black dust. "Fingerprints?"

"Yes." She waits. "On the door. Perfect fingerprints. Perfect, unknown fingerprints."

"And if whoever left last wore gloves," Andy says slowly, "the prints would have smudged."

"Yes, unless of course the killer left the doors open."

"Doesn't sound likely, Ma'am," Julio pipes in.

"No, it doesn't."

"Sounds to me like a regular murder, not a major crime," Julio says while Andy still studies the pictures.

"I think we really should see what the kid has to say about this,," Andy says digging out his phone. He dials Provenza's number and after a short wait leaves a message. Sharon worries the corner of her legal pad while he talks. When he hangs up, the room stays silent for several long moments.

"I'm, uh, I'm going down to SI and work on our partials," Mike says and leaves the room.

The door down the hall barely closes when Julio in turn jumps to his feet. "I'll help Buzz."

A few seconds later Andy takes off his jacket and folds back into his chair. He glances at Sharon, who is still looking vacantly down at her pad. She is definitely off her game, Andy thinks. Their evening last night wasn't that bad, not in his opinion. Okay, it was a complete disaster at the end, but... He sighs and starts updating the electronic case file.

He doesn't get too far when they are disturbed by incoming footsteps. Glancing up, Andy can't help the major eye roll and the swear he mutters under his breath.

Taylor comes to a halt by Andy's desk and, without preamble, asks, "Where is Provenza?"

"With the ex-wife." Andy doesn't elaborate. "Anything the Captain can do for you Chief?"

Taylor dismisses the question and for good measure turns his back more clearly on Sharon. He proceeds to ask questions about their progress. At first Andy answers them hesitantly and regularly looks to Sharon for input or whether she minds him having the discussion with Taylor but Sharon knows that the Chief is trying to make a point here. With a nearly imperceptible smile she bends her head over the laptop, tunes the discussion out and goes to fill her spreadsheets.

After Andy finishes his recounting of the case, Taylor rounds back to confirm, "So we can rule this out as a major crime?"

"Yeah." Andy glances again to Sharon. Seeing her paying no attention to the conversation happening in front of her, he continues, "It pretty much looks like an inside job, no danger to the public."

"Good," he nods. "Priority status is lifted then. No overtime on this if possible, and all non-essential personnel is to be sent home at the earliest possible opportunity."

Andy returns the nod and adds the sloppiest possible salute for good measure. He digs out his phone and hits the speed dial for Provenza. He is the incident commander, it's his responsibility to chase people home. And whatever else.

As Flynn turns to his phone conversation (again it looks like Provenza is not picking up), Taylor turns on Sharon.

"I let you stay here under the strict understanding that it wouldn't be against medical advice and that Provenza would take lead."

Sharon raises her head and plasters on a sweet smile. "I'm not going against medical advice and Provenza is doing everything that involves walking. Chief. I'm just reading," she adds innocently. Taylor has the good sense to look dubious. He holds the eye contact for a while but Sharon's an old fox at these petty power games and Taylor relents with a deep sigh.

"At least your paperwork is in order. However, I thought you would remember the 5020 goes out in duplicate, but with only one filled." Duplicate? She only sent the one. She glances at Andy rubbing his neck. "Your division sure loves their paperwork." Taylor lays out three copies of the same form, each filled out, with only minor differences in their wordings and level of detail. He lets her look, then brings out a fourth. "I guess this is improvement."

Sharon looks at them all, then reaches out for the one she wrote herself. The other two, Andy and Provenza, if she had to guess. After reading, she pushes her form back and picks up the one filled out and signed by Taylor. It is nearly identical, with the only big difference being in the employer notes section. "I guess so," she says and adds her signature, then hands the form back. Taylor adds it on top of the others, makes a stack.

"And no over-time for you. I mean it, Sharon."

"Yes, Chief."

"Okay." He stares at her for good few moments more to emphasize his point, then turns on his heel. "Flynn, make sure she goes home early and doesn't do anything stupid."

"On it, Chief."

With a nod, Taylor leaves them alone. Sharon's barely back to her spreadsheets when Andy interrupts her peace.

"So now you lie to our boss."

"I did nothing of the sort," she says lightly as she makes a note on her pad. "The current advice on dealing with a twisted ankle calls for rest, ice and elevation. I am sitting down, my ankle is up and there is ice on it."

"You forgot compression."

"Ah. That's just a recommendation. It 'may' help. And it's usually best applied before the swelling goes up or after it has settled. I missed the window," she explains casual as hell. Knowing an excuse from her lips when he sees one, Andy raises a brow.

"You're too damn stubborn." She hums. "How are you going to get around with not getting checked out after being injured at work?"

"It was very recently pointed out to me that someone in PBS has been sleeping on the job. Apparently," her tone drops in conspiracy as she leans in and Andy enjoys her momentary playfulness, "there is a loophole. The rules are very clear about medical treatment when getting injured while actively filling your duties and seeking medical advice in case of getting injured off-duty in such a way that might impede the future dispensation of your duties. I, however, did not get to even identify myself as an officer of the law nor did I participate in anything that resulted to, or followed from, my injury. I can hardly be called 'active', can I?" She throws in an innocent half-shrug.

"That's just devious." He considers her with the strangest mixture of exasperation and admiration. She has always had the power to inspire him to strange moods and emotions and that talent has only turned more powerful as the years have gone by, the moods and emotions more complex. "Sharon, why won't you go home."

"And leave Provenza between Taylor and newscasters? Have a heart." She scribbles notes on the legal pad resting on her thigh. Then, quietly, adds, "You saw Rusty. I can't take the fussing."

"He's not fussing." It's her turn to quirk a brow. "Okay, he is a little. The kid is just worried. A little fussing won't kill you."

"If it was you injured and someone was fussing over you, you would be a bear."

"True, but that's different."

"How?"

"For one thing, I wouldn't admit to being injured. Rookie mistake, Raydor."

"And pray tell me how I'd hide this?" she asks full of sarcasm, her hands gesturing at the ugly bruise peeking out from under the ice pack.

"Longer skirts?" he deadpans, but smiles as he walks over. "No, it's a very nice skirt."

Andy rounds the desk and crouches down almost exactly where Rusty inspected Sharon's leg earlier. He places his left hand just above her knee, closing his fingers around it and very, very gently uses his right hand to move her foot ever so minutely. Her cheeks burn a lot more fiercely than the ankle as she stares his hand around her knee.

"Does it hurt at all?"

"No. Feels stiff." Like her whole body at the moment, if being truthful.

He hums, distracted by his study of her ankle.

"I can take care of myself," she mumbles. Andy smiles at her stubbornness: she wants to assert her self-sufficiency even when he made no comment to question it. He stands up and lets his hands find his pockets.

Sharon's eyes linger on his hands. A bit too long she realizes as his fingers pat his thighs inside the pockets. She barely avoids blushing as her eyes shoot up to his face. The sloppy grin she finds there almost melts her heart. As if by reflex, it ignites a smile on her own face.

"Just one question, though," Andy's voice interrupts her daydream. He crouches back down and that hand finds its way back on her knee. Dazed, she nods for a permission, expecting him to enquire about pain meds or something. "Can you wear five inch heels?"

She tilts her head, the corner of her lips twitching. "Of course I can, and more. Just not to walk in them."

Only when the words leave her mouth she hears what she says. More than that, she can't avoid the implication and that is so much worse. She picks up her pen and starts fiddling with it, too busy being embarrassed to notice how Andy's face goes as close to flushing red as it could.

'Stiff' was a great basis for a double entendre and his mind was more than willing to go there. Especially when chased with that smile of hers. And now that it had, the thought of double entendres and her five inch heels was pretty hard to get rid of — even before he thought that word too. He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. Great, there is no way he can get up and walk away now without embarrassing himself even further.

While Andy is busy collecting himself, Sharon turns to fighting her embarrassment once again. She blames his warm hand and compelling grin for letting that remark slip. Or maybe the smell on her shoes was more potent than she thought. Or maybe she had actually hit her head. Or maybe, just maybe, last night her body found completely insane ways to relate to one Andrew Flynn.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** _Again a weird chapter cutoff due to the new chapter division. Next one's either going to be extremely short or uncomfortably long... Let's see how things roll from here. Thanks to anyone still following/reading/reviewing._  
 _Oh, and for some reason I refuse to acknowledge that the new building has no underground garage. Weird that, too._

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

Sharon doesn't figure out what to do with Andy Flynn before she is alone with him. She got a small reprieve for thinking when she managed to slip into the elevator while he was distracted with a call. It didn't last long: he caught up with her halfway down the garage. Sharon didn't look up, but she felt the eye roll and the unspoken chastising all the way down her spine. For a brief moment the small of her back tingled with the nearness of a guiding hand that never made contact.

He has gone mercifully quiet, Sharon thinks. They both know they have so much to talk about but while she still doesn't know what to say, Andy is finally at the point where he has burned through his rash, insistent need for confrontation. Their conflict resolution strategies are so completely opposite that it's a wonder they can function together; so completely opposite that it is a wonder this is their first serious communication breakdown on a personal level.

Sharon likes to think that in the future their different ways of coping will be an asset. They will learn to work together, to give each other the space and freedom to express themselves in a safe way. As soon as they get through these first, horribly awkward and completely unpleasant, growing pains. Both she and Jack are avoiders in their own ways, and that has more than a little to do with why she's stuck with a marriage that no longer serves any purpose or why Jack thinks they are doing just fine. With Andy and his tendency for immediate confrontation she will never find that comfortable place of complacency and disinterest.

A little frightening that, really.

And oddly comforting, if she dares to be honest with herself.

"Come on then," Andy breaks the silence as he stops by his car, gesturing for Sharon to move further in between his and the neighboring car.

She navigates the narrow passage and reaches for the door handle in anticipation. His hand is faster however. As he unlocks the car with his right hand holding the fob in his pocket, the side of his left hand brushes down hers. She freezes, stares at their kissing hands. Sharon can hardly breathe, Andy doesn't want to. His hand makes two additional trips up and down hers before jumping to the handle. He doesn't look at her when he holds the door open for her.

She quietly folds herself in her place, nods a thank you as words fail her. She fiddles with her trench, arranges it to cover her legs, then to rest on her lap, then again to cover her legs. She's indecisive and she has too few possessions to really enable enough busywork. What is he thinking?! Why is he touching her? Why is he so quiet?

Sharon draws in a choking gulp of air as Andy lands on the driver's seat.

He's still not looking at her, only twists to and fro putting away his things. Like he even has that many things, Sharon thinks sullenly and rearranges her trench. He even adjusts all the mirrors! She lets out an irritated puff of air and folds her arms, still watching his hands out of the corner of her eye.

"All set?" he asks gripping the steering wheel with both of his palms, his eyes front.

Sharon opens her mouth but no sound comes out. She licks her lips, tries again. "Uh — ahm... yea." Her eyes close. Brilliant Sharon, truly eloquent. She is on the wrong side of forty (and not by an insignificant margin) to behave like a child. Nor is she some untried maiden who should lose all ability to function at the slightest contact with a man.

As if oblivious to her inner inequilibrium, Andy turns the ignition and signals left.

"I still think you should go to the doctor's," Andy says casually when they enter the stream of cars outside, "There's plenty of those on the way, I could —"

"No, thank you," she replies quickly, her tone an icepick.

Andy makes an aggravated noise deep down in his throat before letting silence take over. It's not an easy silence, but to Sharon silence is better than talking right now. Even if that silence stretches on and on and on. Her thoughts are at a jumble. They stray from last night to this morning, from the case to the graze of his hand on hers. In sympathy her gaze volleys from the side window to her hands to the front to the side. Her lips rub together on every other volley spreading wetness. For his part, Andy thinks she is adorably nervous. And adorable when nervous.

Their awkward confinement is disturbed by the shrill ring of Sharon's phone. Immediately she begins to dig for the offending, or in this case, redeeming, apparatus. "Oh thank God," she blurts under her breath. It comes out so quickly and with so much relief that Andy is sure he was never meant to hear it. Were it any other day, he would laugh.

"Yes, Lieutenant," she opens the call and Andy guesses the caller is Provenza. "The second son?" she asks, "What did you find out?" She pauses to listen, looks at Andy to see if he is listening too before she finally thinks to switch the call to speaker.

"— is about 18, but the ex didn't know about the mother. Says she's, and this is a quote, 'unsure' of the mother. Never asked, didn't want to know. But she knows the name," he stops on a cliffhanger and both Sharon and Andy perk up.

"Which is..." Sharon prompts.

"Logan. Logan Martin."

"Martin?"

"Yes, for some reason, while he is not listed on the birth certificate, the mother wanted to give the kid his father's last name."

"That's... unusual," Sharon summarizes and glances at Andy who only shrugs.

"Not the most unusual thing we've ever seen," Provenza counters. "So, we have a name and a rough age to narrow down on." The line goes quiet, expectant.

"Well," Sharon says after a few seconds taking the prompt, "good work, Lieutenant. I expect a report on the morrow, but tonight, let's all go home."

"Yes, Captain," he says with a satisfied tone. They end the call and Sharon takes a lot longer than necessary to put away her mobile.

Almost full three minutes later Andy sighs. "So, that's at least something."

Sharon pauses in the middle of snapping her purse shut. Hums, then finishes the action.

They drive the last miles as they drove the first. In awkward silence, Sharon fidgets, not being able to focus on anything but on thinking that the drive to her building can't open quickly enough. She starts to gather her things good five blocks away from home and is nearly out of the door when the vehicle slows.

"Hang on," Andy says reaching to grab her arm, "I'll walk you up."

"Oh, there's no need, Lieutenant." Her quick reply gets his lip curling in displeasure. First her eyes land on the hand holding her arm, then to his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. She jumps in to placate with a smile, "Rusty's coming to get me."

"I can save the kid a trip."

"No, thank you," she says exhaling and leans her head back. It's not that she particularly wants Andy to be near her longer, but it's not that she wants to push him away either. There are just things that are hard to explain and that have nothing to do with them as a 'them', no matter how their current situation is playing out. "I think he wants to do this," she clarifies, "to make himself feel helpful. Andy, let him do this."

He studies her profile, then relents, "Okay." He glances at the surroundings, and seeing no other cars coming or going, turns to face her relaxing his forearm against the steering wheel. "But I'll wait up with you." He gently tugs at her arm. "Sit back down."

She nods, relaxes fully into her seat and fiddles with her fingers. The palm on her arm is burning hot and his intense gaze scorches the side of her face. They make her nervous if anything. She used to enjoy being with him, being around him. One night and one miscalculation and that all flew out of the window. His study spurs her to reach for something to say.

"I enjoyed the ballet," she says suddenly.

"So you said."

"I did." She smiles that unguarded smile that is so Sharon, the one he always thinks as being able to light up Chicago. Why Chicago, he can't say since he hasn't even been to Chicago once in his life. Perhaps it is a quote he heard somewhere that stuck in the back of his head and only understood when he saw Sharon smile. He has never thought of it until a couple of months ago. After that, it's been on his mind constantly. She is so, too, gorgeous when she smiles. "Enjoy it, I mean," she clarifies, then rolls her eyes at her own awkwardness. "Why are we like this?" She turns to look at him, really look at him. "I don't want to fight with you," she whispers.

He leans closer, his forearm still on the steering wheel, the other hand finding home under her chin. A soft touch of thumb and forefinger play along her jaw.

"Me neither," he rumbles looking deep into her eyes as he leans closer until he is so close as to share on her breath. Which catches, suddenly. "Definitely not," he adds. He smirks at his power when her eyes drop to his lips. "I have your heels."

"I know," she inhales him, ready to repeat past mistakes. She turns a low hum into a question, "Will you give them back?"

He shifts even closer, strokes her skin with his thumb. "Come and get them?"

She hums, trapped. He likes to confuse her. There is no other reason for him to behave like this. First, she thinks, at the very beginning, he threw out flirty comments like breathing. As their acquaintance depended he was so eager to please that he was tongue-tied. Then, recently, sometimes, she felt like he was trying to honestly flirt with her. Now... Now she knows better and yet he does things like this. Looks at her with too much in his eyes, touches her so right she wants to give in to him and... And yet she knows she's imaging it all and she can't handle that. Can't handle him.

She's already pulling away as the rap on the window comes. Andy flinches and quickly pretends to be all casual.

"Okay, Sharon," Rusty opens her door and looks appraisingly at her leg, "let's get you up on the couch."

Sharon raises a brow. "Why the couch?"

"I made dinner."

"I see." She offers an amused look for Andy, tilts her head while Rusty takes her trench. "He made me dinner." Then he takes her hand and starts to help her out. Seeing that Andy comes round to offer help in any way, but Sharon is already standing on the curb and fixing the purse handle on her shoulder. "Well..." she says to Andy, "Bye now."

"Call you," he says softly.

At the front door Sharon looks back over her shoulder and sees him leaning against his car, both of his hands deep in his pockets, the look on his face a mixture of smugness and something more tender.

Upstairs, Rusty takes her coat and offers her her favorite cardigan, then ushers her on the couch and returns to put away all her things. "I'm making chicken and roasted vegs. I thought you might like that. But it's going to take a while yet, I didn't know to put it in until you texted me."

"It's fine, Rusty," Sharon says softly, "I'm going to rest here and wait," she closes her eyes and hums as her neck muscles flex over the couch's back. "Thank you, Rusty."

He quietly goes about his business while Sharon meditates her eyes closed. She resolves not to think about Andy, about throbbing ankles, about long days, about anything to do with her life. She might even doze off a little.

That is until her bladder pushes her back to the realm of succulent chicken smells. Her eyes open, she listens for a minute or two and then makes a move.

"Hey, where do you think you're going!"

She leans back on the cushions, sighs and smirks. She's being watched. Figures. "To the bathroom."

Rusty rounds the couch, falters for a second, looks down the hall and back. Calculates something in his mind. "Do you need like, um, help?"

"No thank you," Sharon says hiding her laughter; "I think I can manage." Her answer doesn't seem to be enough for the boy. He shifts his weight with an uncomfortable look on his face. "It's alright, Rusty," Sharon reassures, "I managed at work just fine."

"But like... You had Flynn."

She laughs, "Andy didn't take me to the bathroom either. It's fine."

"Yeah." Rusty flops on the couch beside her. "What's that even all about?" he says and ignores the way Sharon tenses. "Like he's usually so... I don't know. At your beck and call. And today he was, like horrible to you."

Sharon ignores the comment, pulls on the sleeves of her cardigan. Yes, he might have been horrible to her, but she understands. She can relate: she is being horrible enough to him. But what Rusty doesn't understand is the fundamental difference between Andy and her, even between Andy and him. Where she and Rusty worry by fussing and smothering, Andy's worry fuels his anger. Their responses are so opposite. He's fire where she and Rusty go ice. Besides that, Rusty doesn't know about the recent developments between her and Andy and she likes to keep it that way. Anything she might say now has the potential to change that. That's why she extends the silence as far as it will go and luckily the boy caves in first.

"I guess he's just worried about you, though. I mean, you're like together and all."

"Rusty," she clears her throat. Inadvertently he got too close. "We are not 'together'. We are friends."

The boy rolls his eyes like they need the exercise. "Yeah. Whatever. Still bugs me he couldn't be bothered to care." He finally looks at her. "You sure can pick them, Sharon."

She looks down at her hands in her lap. "It's not like that. He's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Sharon? Looks to me like you two are joined at the hip and he doesn't even need for you to say 'jump' before he does but as soon as you get hurt he doesn't get you help, he lets you work, he makes you walk in heels; he dumps you at the parking lot. Okay, he demeaned himself to giving you a ride and I guess I'm amazed he didn't get you a bus ticket and send you home. Real classy and caring."

"Rusty... There are things you don't understand."

"Like what?" the boy challenges.

Sharon was afraid of that but couldn't think of anything else to say. This whole conversation was idiotic from the start! She should have gone to the bathroom already. But since she still hasn't gone, she needs to formulate some kind of an answer.

"Well..." she buys time, "well, for one thing... We were at work."

"So?"

"So... When I tell him to back off, he backs off." Sharon shuffles closer to the edge, takes a hold of the handrest on one side and pushes her fist against the cushion on the other. "Whatever you might think otherwise, at work we are nothing, not even friends. He does as I say or takes it up with someone higher up." She stands up, a little wobbly but close to pain free. "Frankly I'm getting tired of those puppy-dog jokes and meaningful 'whatevers' you like to dish our way. He doesn't follow me around any more than... let's say Amy does. He certainly doesn't do it with the implied meaning of 'chasing me' you think I don't get."

With that surprisingly well-formulated retort — she is actually a little proud of the way she manages to shut him up — she storms to the bathroom the best she can.


End file.
